


Cracks in the In-Between Places

by SwissMiss



Series: Tristram Holmes AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Case Fic, John should really know better, Kid Fic, Kids, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Gore, No Smut, No Spoilers, Parentlock, Questionable Parenting Practices, Sherlock wouldn't know what was inappropriate if it bit him, Single Parents, Slow Burn, Traumatic Injury to a Minor, child endangerment, fanfic of a fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set in the universe of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida">nox_candida</a>'s <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/226036">Getting Better</a>. John and Sherlock work together to flush out Mary's killers, and Tristram has to come to terms with what his father's new friend means for him. Complete AU, no spoilers for the TV series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Getting Better](https://archiveofourown.org/works/226036) by [nox_candida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida). 



> Story warning: This fic contains child endangerment and traumatic injury to a minor. If this might be distressing to you, please proceed with caution.
> 
> Beta read by ruth0007 and billiethepoet, with special thanks to thissalsify and ladyprydian for medi-picking the relevant scenes. In places where I had to choose between medical accuracy and story dramatics, the story won out, so the blame for any inaccuracies rests entirely on my head. Basically, don't take anything in this fic as an example for proper medical treatment, and don't try any of this at home.
> 
> This fic also contains some spoilers for the _Harry Potter_ book series, written by JK Rowling.
> 
> \-------
> 
> Author's note: I was so taken by the characters created by nox_candida in Getting Better that the story just kept going in my head and I had to write it down. I figured I'd probably never end up posting it, as, well, it felt more than a little cheeky to continue someone else's story. But I finally got about 35,000 words in and realized that I was either going to need to ask for permission to post it or stop writing. So I worked up the courage to ask nox_candida what she thought about it, and she was so kind and generous as to give me permission to post this as an AU set in the same universe.
> 
> It's not a definitive sequel of Getting Better, and does not take into account any of the other stories set in the same universe. However, this will probably make very little sense unless you read Getting Better. So, if you haven't yet, go and do so and leave some lovely comments for the author there before starting this. I have also provided a synopsis of Getting Better below in case you need a refresher.
> 
> Synopsis of nox_candida's Getting Better:
> 
> John and Sherlock are both single parents with the same professional backgrounds as in the BBC series. However, they do not know each other at the start of the story.
> 
> John's wife, Mary, was killed two years earlier in an apparent robbery, leaving him to raise their daughter, Emily, who is now 9. John and Emily are living with John's sister, Harry, and her wife, Clara, in order to save money and so they can help with child care.
> 
> Sherlock has a son, Tristram, who is 8. All we know of Tristram's mother is that she and Sherlock had a turbulent, on-again-off-again relationship, and that she left when Tristram was just a few days old and hasn't been heard from since. Sherlock and Tristram live at 221B, with Mrs Hudson helping out with minding Tristram when Sherlock is on a case. Mycroft is also an active participant in Tristram's life.
> 
> Tristram transfers to Emily's school following some difficulties at his previous school, and quickly makes friends with her. Emily tells him what happened to her mother, and that the culprit was never caught. Tristram asks his father to investigate, and that is how Sherlock and John meet. As they get to know each other better, there is an underlying attraction brewing between them. However, it is never acted upon.
> 
> Sherlock discovers that Mary's sister, Claire, had arranged for a hit on Mary because she was jealous and wanted John for herself. As the investigation heats up and Sherlock gets closer to finding out who was behind it, Claire kidnaps Tristram and Emily, apparently on the orders of whoever she'd gone to to have Mary killed. Tristram and Emily manage to get word to John and Sherlock by stealing Claire's mobile, but Tristram ends up tied to a chair with a bomb under it before help can reach them.
> 
> John and Sherlock finally arrive and free Tristram with seconds to spare. Strangely, the bomb ends up being filled with knockout gas, not explosives, leaving everyone puzzling over what the purpose of the kidnapping was after all.
> 
> Claire is arrested, but is found dead - murdered - in her cell a few days later. The only leads are her mention before her arrest of a mysterious 'bogeyman' that everyone at her workplace was afraid of, and a note left with her body that reads ‘Wasn’t that a fun game? Played to a draw, which is so boring. Next game will be better, I promise. XOXO.’

**Chapter One**

Tristram is surprised when his father tells him to finish his homework quickly that Friday afternoon. He usually wants him to double-check his answers and do the extra questions at the end of the chapter, but today he tells him just to complete the assignments given by his teachers. When Tristram asks why and is informed that they're going to the Watsons' again for dinner, though, he doesn't need to be told twice.  
  
It's not only that he's looking forward to seeing Emily again (despite the fact that he just saw her at school an hour ago). It's that it looks like his father and Emily's father have patched up their differences, or at least are going to be cordial enough to let him and Emily go to each other's houses. It's been a week since Doctor Watson admitted that Tristram's father was right all along, but no one's said anything about their earlier plans to have Emily come over to see some of his father's experiments or for Tristram to go to Emily's house after school. Maybe after this, they can ask again.  
  
And the best part is, Emily's awful Aunt Claire won't be there to spoil things this time. Tristram feels a twist of guilt as soon as he thinks that. Even though she was awful, she was murdered, and he wouldn't wish that to happen to anyone. He tries not to think about how it might have happened. He knows lots of ways people can die. His father always tries to keep his case files and laptop closed when he's not using them, especially when he's out of the house. Tristram is a curious little boy, though, and has snuck peeks from time to time when his father's been out. He stopped doing that after he saw the picture of the man with his neck gaping open, but not before he got plenty of ideas to fuel his imagination.  
  
He opens his maths book and tries to concentrate on his sums. The sooner he finishes, the sooner they can go to Emily's.  
  
In the taxi, Tristram's father doesn't say anything the entire way, instead staring out at the rainy, grey streets. This isn't unusual. Tristram supposes he's still thinking about the case. He got some pictures from Detective Inspector Lestrade yesterday. Tristram didn't even try to sneak a look at them, because he knew what they were of: Emily's Aunt Claire, dead in her jail cell.  
  
What is unusual is that Tristram catches his father's eyes sliding over to him a few times, and once he even reaches down and squeezes his knee and leaves his hand there for a few seconds. Tristram could probably count on one hand the number of times his father has hugged him. He might need two hands soon, though. In the aftermath of Friday Afternoon (which has acquired a capital letter in his mind, and after which his father hugged him for an inordinately long time), Father has put his hand on Tristram's shoulder every morning when he leaves him at the gate to the schoolyard, admonishing him to be observant.  
  
Tristram wonders if the generous hugs that Emily shares with her father have anything to do with it. Maybe Father simply didn't know that parents hugged and touched their children before they met the Watsons. He certainly never hangs around school after dropping Tristram off to see other dads and mums hugging their children good-bye.  
  
As they wait for someone to answer the door at Emily's aunts' house, Tristram suddenly wonders if this was such a good idea after all. The last time they were here, things went so poorly. He wishes he could think of something he can do to make sure no one gets angry. Maybe Emily will have an idea.  
  
When the door finally opens, the entrance area is crowded: in addition to Emily and her father, both of Emily's aunts are there, and they have their coats on.  
  
"Hi Tris, Sherlock. Come in, sorry for the crush," Emily's father says good-naturedly, shuffling backwards to let them in. Emily smiles and waves at Tristram from behind him, although she is more subdued, less her usual effusive self.  
  
"We're just off," Aunt Clara says. "Date night." She exchanges a look with her wife that Tristram doesn't quite get the significance of, although it looks like they think she's just made a joke.  
  
Doctor Watson clears his throat. He glances at Tristram's father with a sheepish grin and shrugs helplessly.  
  
Tristram's father arches his eyebrows, but doesn't look annoyed. Tristram breathes a sigh of relief. His father unwraps his scarf and refuses Doctor Watson's offer to take his coat, instead hanging it over one of the hooks on the wall himself.  
  
As Tristram hands his own coat to Emily's father (he's too short to reach the hooks), he hears Emily's Aunt Harry say to his father in a low voice, "I just want you to know how incredibly grateful we all are to you, Sherlock. Not just for what you did last week, but for all of your help in uncovering what happened. I don't - Well, let's just say it's helped us all to find some closure."  
  
His father inclines his head and says, "You're welcome," which surprises Tristram. His father rarely responds to thanks in that way. Usually he just sneers or grunts.  
  
After that, Emily's aunts leave, amidst cries of 'have a nice time' and 'stay on as long as you like, we won't be back till late' and some smothered giggles.  
  
"Well," Emily's father begins, once the four of them are alone, "I- that is, we're happy to see you - the two of you - again. I hope it's all right that it's just the four of us this time?" He seems nervous. Tristram can tell because he doesn't keep his eyes in the same place for very long and he keeps clenching and unclenching his hand.  
  
"Quite," Tristram's father says, watching Emily's father intently. "I wouldn't want to be held responsible for my actions if I'd had to listen to them snickering behind my back all evening."  
  
Doctor Watson snorts, and Tristram quite agrees. Emily's aunts are nice enough, but they giggle an awful lot and act like they have secrets, just like the 'silly goose group' (his own name for a group of four or five girls in his class who act very much like silly geese all the time).  
  
Tristram's father smiles at Doctor Watson - a small, tentative smile - and Tristram sees his throat bob as he swallows. Is he nervous too? Well, it's understandable. Maybe he's also remembering what happened last time they were here, or he's anxious that Doctor Watson might blame him for what happened to his sister-in-law. (Even if she was an awful person, she still didn't deserve to be murdered.) It wouldn't be the first time that someone got angry at his father for catching a criminal. But Doctor Watson isn't angry at Tristram's father; at least, he smiles and nods and ducks his head and suggests they go to the kitchen, so he can finish dinner.  
  
"Can we go up to my room?" Emily asks, stealing a conspiratorial look at Tristram. Tristram's both relieved and disappointed. He doesn't like being caught in a room with uncomfortable adult conversations going on, but on the other hand he thinks there's less chance his father and Doctor Watson will get angry at each other if Tristram and Emily are in the room with them.  
  
He doesn't have a say in the matter, though, as Doctor Watson smiles at Emily and says in his gentle way, "Go on, we'll call you when it's ready." Tristram's father doesn't so much as spare them a glance, so intent is he on following Emily's father into the kitchen.  
  
"Come on," Emily says, already halfway up the stairs. "Now I can finally show you the time machine box."

&&&&&&

  
"Can I offer you a glass of wine?" John asks as they enter the kitchen. "I already have a bottle open." He indicates a bottle on the counter with a half-full glass beside it.  
  
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says.  
  
John reaches up into the cabinet for a second glass and pours some wine into it, then tops his own glass up. "Cheers."  
  
The two men raise their glasses and their eyes to each other and take a drink. John looks away first, turning to assemble the salad. "I hope you and Tristram like spaghetti. It's Emily's favourite. She helped me with the menu."  
  
"It's one of Tristram's favourites as well," Sherlock says stiffly, then adds, as if just now remembering it would be good manners to do so, "May I do something to help?"  
  
"No, it's almost ready, I just..." John puts the salad tongs down and leans against the counter, his shoulders sagging. "I don't want this to be awkward, Sherlock. I'm glad you agreed to come tonight. After how I acted-"  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, do stop being so tedious."  
  
John smiles at him ruefully. "I know you don't like repetition."  
  
"Precisely. You were blinded by emotion and by your basic good nature, which made you unable to believe that someone you knew could be capable of such a thing." Sherlock stares down into his glass. "I also know that my own nature is off-putting to many people. The clash was not something that either of us was prepared for." He tosses a mouthful down quickly.  
  
"I don't think anything could have prepared me for you," John says, watching Sherlock with soft eyes. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out to lick his lower lip.  
  
"I- No, I suppose not," Sherlock says, eying John warily. "You've also been something of a surprise to me," he admits. "What you did last week. Coming with me, helping to get Tristram out. That was- good. Not many would have put themselves in that position."  
  
John's fists clench at his sides. "God, I still can't believe it. Her own sister, and then dragging kids into it. How-" His expression turns hard. "How could someone have so much hatred in them? Even in Afghanistan, the people there were fighting for an ideology. It was never so personal."  
  
"In my experience, emotions are the single greatest source of conflict."  
  
John shakes his head. "Yeah, you're probably right about that," he mutters.  
  
Sherlock swirls the red liquid around in his glass, seemingly mesmerised. "It's also the area in which I'm... the least well-versed."  
  
John lets the statement hang there, waiting to see if Sherlock will continue. When he doesn't, he prompts quietly, "Oh?"  
  
"I generally find interactions with other people outside of criminal investigations messy and awkward. Within the scope of investigations as well, come to that." He smirks wryly, and John chuckles in sympathy. "What I'm trying to say, is-"  
  
John interrupts gently, "It's all right, Sherlock. We're all on a learning curve here. I don't have any expectations. Ignore Harry and Clara. They like to pretend they live in a soap opera. I'd like it if we could be friends, at least, for Tris and Emily's sake. They've certainly hit it off like a house on fire."  
  
"That they have," Sherlock agrees. He straightens his back and looks John in the eye. "I'd be honoured to count you as a friend, John."  
  
John beams. "That's settled, then." He turns to the stove and fishes a piece of spaghetti out of the boiling pot to test it. "Looks like this is ready. I'll get the food on the table if you wouldn't mind going up and getting the kids?"

&&&&&&

  
"Do you think they're kissing?" Emily whispers, glancing up from where she's sitting on the floor drawing a blueprint of a flux capacitor.  
  
Tristram, at her desk, looks at her blankly. He's been making a list of the things they'll need to run a proper experiment, starting with a lab book. He knows they can't really build a time machine. If it were possible, adults would have already done it, and they'd have seen time travelers visiting from the future. But it's still interesting to think about, and actually planning and building a model of what they imagine a time machine would look like - and especially doing it with a friend - is more than sufficient to maintain his enthusiasm.  
  
But their plans have nothing to do with kissing, so Tristram asks Emily, "What?"  
  
"Our dads," she says, as if Tristram's slow on the uptake.  
  
His face puckers up in confusion. "Why would they be kissing? They're just getting dinner ready." And anyway, his father never kisses anyone. Other than, sometimes, exceptionally, Tristram, like he did on Friday Afternoon after they got out of the building with the chair and the bomb, or one time when Father was in hospital after getting shot chasing a bad guy, and Tristram was crying so hard. But Tristram had been little then, maybe five. He wouldn't cry like that today, and getting kidnapped and tied to a chair with a bomb was also an exceptional experience (he hopes, at any rate). So, no, in Tristram's estimation, there would be no reason for his father to kiss anyone, much less Doctor Watson.  
  
"That's what grown-ups do when they fancy each other and they're alone." Emily leans closer to Tristram, close enough that he can see her individual, light brown eyelashes. Tristram supposes that might be true, for most adults. But he also knows that his father does not fall into any of the categories involving 'most' people. Which is fine, but Emily doesn't know that, and it's a bit difficult to explain.  
  
He doesn't need to, though, because she has another question: "Do you know what would be brilliant?"  
  
Tristram can think of lots of things that would be brilliant, but he just shakes his head because he wants to hear what Emily thinks.  
  
"If we could cast a spell that would let us see right through the floor." She points down and grins mischievously. "Then we'd know what they're doing."  
  
"That's eavesdropping," Tristram says uncomfortably. He's eavesdropped plenty of times, himself, but he knows it's wrong and he doesn't like it when Emily suggests it.  
  
She doesn't seem bothered. "Eaveslooking maybe."  
  
"Anyway, who cares," Tristram says. All this speculation about their fathers fancying each other is, to use one of his father's favourite words, 'dull'.  
  
"Because if they get married, then you'd be my brother," Emily points out.  
  
This is a new idea for Tristram, and an intriguing one. He's never actively wished to have a sibling; his father doesn't get on well with his own brother, Uncle Mycroft, and he's never interacted closely enough with another family to be able to judge what a home life with more than one child might be like. It does get lonely and boring sometimes, being all alone in the flat when his father's out working on a case (or even when he's at home and immersed in his own experiments or thoughts) and it's only Mrs Hudson puttering around downstairs. He's worldly enough to know that having a sibling wouldn't mean they'd always get along, though, or even be interested in doing things together. He likes playing with Emily, but maybe it would be different if they were around each other all the time. He decides to reserve judgment on the issue for the moment, although it's certainly an idea he'll be revisiting.  
  
In response to Emily, for now, he just shrugs and says, "Maybe."  
  
She doesn't seem to mind his less than enthusiastic response, because now she's finished with her drawing. "How's this?" Emily says, holding it up for his appraisal. It looks like a telly with a sort of Y shape inside. She's done a decent job with the three-dimensional representation of the box part.  
  
"What's it do?" Tristram asks.  
  
"It's like the engine for the time machine. It runs on plutonium. Do you think your dad could get us some?"  
  
"I don't know. I'll ask." His father has lots of chemicals that he keeps in a locked cabinet in the kitchen. Maybe he has some plutonium in there and wouldn't mind if they borrowed a bit.  
  
A sharp rap on the door frame has both children raising their heads to see Tristram's father standing in the open doorway.  
  
"It's time to come downstairs for dinner," he says.  
  
"Father, do you have any plutonium we could use?" Tristram asks as he gets up.  
  
His father gives him a mildly curious look. "What do you need plutonium for?"  
  
"It's for our time machine," Emily explains, holding out her drawing. "See, this is the flux capacitor. It runs on plutonium."  
  
"Plutonium is a radioactive element whose use is tightly controlled by the government," Tristram's father says, studying the diagram with interest. "I doubt I would be able to lay my hands on any, or at least not without a great deal of trouble."  
  
"Uncle Mycroft then?" Tristram asks hopefully. Uncle Mycroft can do just about anything, and he really doesn't want to disappoint Emily.  
  
"You can ask him the next time you see him," his father says. "Honestly, I wouldn't hold out any great hope. In lieu of that, however, perhaps I can help you come up with an alternative power source."  
  
"Exactly!" Emily's face lights up and she turns to Tristram. "When they come back from the future, they have an updated engine that runs on garbage. It's a much more advanced technology, of course, but I'll bet with your dad's help we could figure it out."  
  
Tristram doesn't really follow what Emily's talking about, but at least she's not disappointed about the plutonium.  
  
His father makes them stop off at the bathroom to wash their hands before proceeding downstairs. Tristram already feels better about this visit. Without Emily's aunts around, he doesn't worry so much about smudging the doors or knocking something off a shelf. And his father and Doctor Watson have managed to be alone together without getting into an argument.  
  
When Tristram comes out of the bathroom, he surreptitiously looks at his father's face and mouth. Could he tell if he'd kissed Doctor Watson? He remembers seeing traces of Mrs Hudson's lipstick on Father's cheek one Christmas, after she'd thanked him for some present or other. Doctor Watson doesn't wear lipstick, though, so there's probably no way to tell.  
  
Dinner goes much better than last time. Doctor Watson and Tristram's father sit on one side of the table, with Tristram and Emily on the opposite side. Tristram is very pleased with this arrangement, because it means he can talk to Emily easily, and he has a good view of both adults. They have spaghetti, which is brilliant, because he doesn't need to worry about cutting anything up. Nobody mentions the case, or Emily's aunt or mother.  
  
Tristram's father talks about some of the experiments he's done (the one where his entire body turned purple and he had to stay inside for a week is always fun to revisit), and Tristram is prevailed upon to explain his soil experiment, which Doctor Watson says he's very keen on seeing. Doctor Watson relates some of the medical cases he's had. They're all, objectively speaking, pretty routine (mild poisonings, broken toes, beetles in ears), but the way he speaks, with his expressive face and soothing voice, makes Tristram want him to keep talking all night.  
  
Tristram's father seems to feel the same way, judging by the encouraging sounds he makes at all the right junctures and the way his eyes never leave Doctor Watson's face. Tristram's never seen him this focused on a living person for this long. It's as if Emily's father is a new puzzle for him to crack.  
  
And then, something amazing happens.  
  
Doctor Watson's just told a story, something about a man and piles (Tristram's not sure of what) and an artillery shell. Tristram doesn't understand most of it, except that they had to call in the bomb squad to defuse the explosive. This reminds Tristram uncomfortably of last Friday, but by the end of the story, both their fathers are laughing so hard they have tears in their eyes.  
  
Tristram is gobsmacked. He has never, ever seen his father laugh like this. Fake smiles for clients, yes (or for Emily's Aunt Claire, which he doesn't want to remember), as well as genuine smiles of pleasure, triumph, and pride. Chuckles at small amusements or his own cleverness, even cries of joy when he's solved something or got the better of Uncle Mycroft. But this: minutes of sustained, gasping laughter, his face stretched and his mouth open so that his chin doubles up and reminds him of Uncle Mycroft's. It's a revelation.  
  
Even though Tristram has no idea what they're laughing about, he's so happy that he starts laughing too. He looks over at Emily, who has also collapsed in sympathetic giggles. It's a glorious moment.  
  
Afterwards, they all bring their dishes to the kitchen, and Emily and Tristram are charged with going to the living room and putting on some music while their fathers tidy up.

&&&&&&

  
"You can pile everything up there," John says, indicating the sideboard next to the sink. "I'll wash up later. I just want to get this food put away." He sets about transferring the leftovers to plastic containers.  
  
Sherlock leans back against the counter, following his movements attentively. "Emily seems to be doing well," he remarks.  
  
"Yes?" John says, not sure what Sherlock's getting at.  
  
"After what happened, I mean. Right back to normal."  
  
John shakes his head. "Not exactly. I mean, yes, she's functioning. But it troubles her. Actually..." He leans into the fridge to move things around and make room for the leftovers.  
  
Sherlock watches his back, letting his eye wander down his legs and back up. When John straightens up again and turns around, Sherlock's eyes snap back to his face. John doesn't appear to notice.  
  
He continues, "I've made her an appointment with a therapist specialising in trauma in children. We'll see her next week."  
  
Sherlock frowns. "Do you really think that necessary?"  
  
"For Emily, yes. She and I both saw a grief counselor when Mary... when she was killed." John's jaw tightens for a moment, the corners of his mouth turned down. "It helped, I think. But this... It's brought everything back. She's worried about everything, constantly asking where I am, what I'm doing. She had a minor panic attack during school on Monday and wouldn't calm down until her teacher called me at work and let her talk to me. What about Tris?"  
  
"Nightmares," Sherlock says curtly. "He's woken up every night and come down to find me. And when he does go back to bed, he leaves the light on all night."  
  
"Would you like her number? The therapist, I mean."  
  
Sherlock waves one hand dismissively. "I don't see what good that will do. It's all just talk. It doesn't change anything."  
  
"Sherlock, this was a major trauma that these kids - _our_ kids - endured!" John says, aghast. "Being kidnapped, thinking they were going to die. Especially Tristram. It's not something that will just go away."  
  
Sherlock scowls. "Don't presume you can tell me what's best for my child, just because you're a doctor."  
  
John holds his hands up. "I'm not an expert in this area. I'm a surgeon, not a psychologist. You'll obviously do what you want and what you think is best, no matter what I say. And you've done a fantastic job with Tristram, raising him on your own. He's a wonderful kid. I won't pretend I'm better at being a single parent than you. I don't know if I could have done what you did. I had the support of a wonderful woman for most of Emily's life, and Harry and Clara have been an absolute godsend for me.  
  
"But for this- this is something I know from the other side. When I-" John leans back against the table, gripping the edge behind him, and looks down. "You know I saw action," he says in a low voice.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock agrees.  
  
"It was-" John looks up to catch Sherlock's eye. "Sherlock, people died. People I knew. Christ, I thought _I_ was going to die. Especially that last time, with the IED- That's not something you just get over. I was in therapy-"  
  
"Which obviously helped with your leg," Sherlock scoffs.  
  
John's jaw clenches again. "That was a small price to pay for my sanity. For the ability to function at a bare minimum."  
  
"Tristram's functioning. At higher than minimum. It's just these nightmares-"  
  
"Like I said, I'm sure you'll do what you think best," John says tightly. "The offer stands. But even if you don't take it up, I just-" John's stance relaxes slightly and his voice becomes softer. "Talk to him. Or let him talk to you. The two of you, you're all that you have."  
  
"Dad?" Emily's voice is accompanied by a tentative knock on the door, followed by her face peeking in.  
  
"Yeah, we'll be right out," John says, smiling at her kindly and stepping away from the table. "Did you pick something good?"  
  
Emily beams. "Yellow Submarine."  
  
"That's my girl," John says and gives her a one-armed hug. "Scoot back in, we'll be out in two shakes." She retreats, and John holds the door for Sherlock. "Ready?" he asks, his voice strained with false cheer. "Let's make it good for them, okay?"  
  
Sherlock walks over and stops next to John, raising one arm to lean against the door. "I'm not upset. I- This entire situation is new to me. You, and..." He lets his gaze roam over John's face, the folds at the corners of his eyes, the furrows in his forehead, the soft outline of his mouth. "I've tried so hard to keep my work and Tristram separate, for exactly this reason. I knew, someday, someone would find out about him, and use him to get to me. I wasn't prepared for it to be so soon."  
  
John's attitude softens. "Maybe I can help," he offers. "I mean, I don't know what threats you're looking at, but I do have tactical experience."  
  
Sherlock nods. "Maybe. It's-" He glances toward the sitting room, where the children's voices can be heard singing along to the refrain of 'Yellow Submarine'. He leans in a bit closer, his head bending toward John. "I don't want you and your daughter to get more deeply involved. But I'd like it if we could meet sometime - where we could talk more freely. Without the children."  
  
John's face opens into a broad smile. "Absolutely. Do you have something in mind?"  
  
"I'll text you," Sherlock says, straightening up.  
  
"Any time," John says, leading the way back through the dining room into the sitting room.

&&&&&&

  
By the time they leave, Tristram is yawning and Emily's leaning against her father, her head tilting to the side.  
  
"Well, it's been a pleasure," John says as they all gather in the entrance hall. "We've had a great time, haven't we, Ems?"  
  
Emily makes an agreeable sound and smiles sleepily at Tristram, although his attention is distracted by the zip on his coat, which has jammed.  
  
"Here, need a hand, Tris?" Doctor Watson leans over to fiddle with the zip until it slides smoothly upward.  
  
"Thanks," Tristram says. Beside him, his father is buttoning up his own coat. It swings out, brushing against Tristram's hand. The scratch of the wool and the smell that comes with the brief puff of air are reassuring in their familiarity. It's been an evening full of new experiences.  
  
"Yes, thank you, John." Tristram's father holds out his hand, and Doctor Watson takes it. They hold on much longer than is usual for a polite good-bye. Or maybe Tristram's sense of time is distorted by the late hour.  
  
"Maybe the two of you could come again sometime," Emily's father suggests. They are still holding hands.  
  
Tristram hopes his father agrees. He's pretty sure he will, because he can tell his father had a good time too. Not just the laughing at dinner, but afterwards, in the living room, he and Doctor Watson sat together on the sofa and talked. Tristram didn't pay attention to what they were saying, because he and Emily were admiring the cover art on all of her father's Beatles CDs. He especially liked the Sgt Pepper and Yellow Submarine ones, and they had a grand time trying to make all the faces from the cover of Hard Day's Night. But even if he didn't hear what their fathers were talking about, he could tell that they were both happy. They sat turned toward each other, each with one leg bent up on the seat. Doctor Watson had one elbow on the back of the sofa, his head resting on his fist, listening intently and looking impressed, uttering small exclamations every now and then. Tristram imagines his father was telling him about some case or other.  
  
But now, as they're about to go, Tristram's father doesn't agree to Doctor Watson's suggestion that they come over again for dinner; instead, he says something entirely unexpected: "Next time you come to ours."  
  
Tristram is jolted into full wakefulness. In his entire conscious memory, they have never had guests for a meal at their flat, other than Mrs Hudson. She's not a guest, though; she lives there. Not even Uncle Mycroft has ever been invited to eat with them. Tristram is a bit unsettled by the idea of having other people in the space which is usually reserved only for him and Father. At the same time, he finds he wants to share it with Emily. And Doctor Watson and Father seem to be getting on famously now. Surely it will be fine.  
  
Tristram's eyes are round, but Doctor Watson's crinkle in pleasure. "We'd like that. Wouldn't we, Emily?" But he doesn't even look down at Emily, although he does squeeze her shoulder with his free hand. Tristram wonders if they are they ever going to finish that handshake.  
  
"Good. Good," Tristram's father says briskly, smiling, and now he squeezes Doctor Watson's hand one last time and lets go. "Good night, then."  
  
"Good night, Tris," Emily's father says, holding his hand out to Tristram. Tristram lets his hand be enclosed in the warm, comforting envelope of Doctor Watson's. He reckons he wouldn't mind letting it linger there a little longer, either.  
  
Tristram says good-bye to Doctor Watson, then to Emily, and then they are back outside, running through the rain to the kerb, where the cab his father rang for is already waiting.  
  
The gentle sway of the car and the rhythmic passing of the street lamps lull him into a half-sleep by the time they pull up outside their flat. His mind is full of plans and questions and new ideas, and they carry him easily into bed. It ends up being the first time he sleeps through the night since his ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read the hilarious (okay, maybe not for him) true story of the man with the piles and the artillery shell, as well as other not exactly safe-for-work tales here: http://www.mercuryserver.com/forums/showthread.php?35710-Emergency-Room-stories


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Chapter Two**

  
When he wakes up on Saturday morning, the lower level of their flat is empty. He's not worried, though. Mrs Hudson is certainly downstairs; his father never leaves him completely alone. Once, when Father had to rush off to a crime scene and Mrs Hudson was spending a week at her niece's, he'd gone so far as to pack Tristram into Uncle Mycroft's black car at four a.m. in his pyjamas.  
  
He finds a note on the kitchen table - _'On a case, back by tonight, let Mrs Hudson know when you're up'_ \- so he goes back upstairs and gets dressed, then goes down to Mrs Hudson's. She makes him far too much breakfast - as if he couldn't make toast and pour milk for himself, but he knows she likes to feed him and his father - and tells him she'll be going out to the shops in the afternoon, and he's to come along. Until then, she says he's welcome to sit with her and watch telly while she does the ironing but he decides he has more interesting things to do upstairs.  
  
There's his soil experiment, for one, which he hasn't done any work on all week; mostly, though, he wants to read on in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_. His father didn't say anything negative when he found out Tristram was reading it; in fact, he seemed mildly interested. But Tristram knows that he generally looks down on non-factual narratives, especially those that centre on acts that defy the laws of physics, so he still feels slightly self-conscious about reading it when his father's around. He doesn't want Father to think he's wasting his time when he could be doing something more productive. Father never reads anything purely for fun, as far as Tristram knows. The only things he reads that aren't related to a current case are things he thinks might be useful on a future one. Who knows? Maybe Harry Potter will turn out to be useful some day.  
  
Emily's father also doesn't want her to read the _Goblet of Fire_ , but he has other reasons. He says it's too scary, plain and simple. Tristram, though, who has grown up around poisons, blood spatter patterns, decomposing body parts, maggots, mould, and explosives, figures he's made of tougher stuff.  
  
He brings the book down to the living room, curls up on the sofa and finds where he left off. When he reads about the tent that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, he gets excited: it's just like Emily said the time travel box was! He greedily drinks in the descriptions of the carnival atmosphere surrounding the wizarding sporting event and is on the edge of his seat all the way through the Quidditch match. When he gets to the part about the Muggles - including two children - being tortured by the dark wizards, though, he gets a sick feeling in his stomach and has to stop reading.  
  
He goes back to his room, puts the book away (no need to hide it anymore since his father already knows he has it), gets his school bag, and goes down to Mrs Hudson's, where he does extra credit exercises until lunchtime.  
  
After they get back from the shops, Tristram puts away the groceries Mrs Hudson bought for them and putters half-heartedly at his soil experiment for a while. The Harry Potter book lurks darkly on his nightstand. It's just a story, he tells himself. It's not real. There's no such thing as wizards, and the people - the Muggle children - in the book are nothing more than words on a page. He's annoyed at himself for being put off by a few sentences. The scene with Voldemort at the end of the first book was much scarier. He carefully puts his slides away and picks up the book again. This time, he skims over the part that bothered him and then proceeds to read through to the end of the chapter. There. The rest wasn't bad at all. Relieved that he's made it through the worst, he settles down to read until his father gets home.  
  
That night, though, he has another nightmare. Emily's Aunt Claire is in it, along with the big man, Gus, who tied him up. They're making him and Emily move like marionettes by means of ropes tied to their arms and legs. Emily is crying, screaming for Tristram to do something. Tristram thrashes back and forth, trying to break free, but the ropes get tighter and tighter, until he can't move at all, can't even breathe. He wakes up gasping and twisted in his sheet.  
  
His light is off, even though he left it on when he went to bed. His father must have come up later and turned it off. He goes downstairs and finds his father lying in his dressing gown on the sofa, his hands clasped across his chest, looking for all the world as if he is asleep. Tristram walks into the kitchen as quietly as he can and gets himself a glass of water. He doesn't want to go back upstairs yet. He wishes his father were at least playing the violin, so he could hear him from his room and know he's here.  
  
While he's standing there on the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, his father speaks: "I'm awake. I'm thinking. I won't be going out again tonight."  
  
"Okay," Tristram says, but he doesn't move.  
  
His father opens his eyes to look at him. "Do you want to tell me about it?"  
  
Tristram shakes his head. He knows what his father will say: 'It's just a dream. It can't really hurt you'. That doesn't mean it wasn't scary, though.  
  
His father looks at him for a long while. Tristram starts to shiver a little. He didn't put on any slippers before coming down, and the floor is drafty. Finally, his father sits up.  
  
"Come here." He slides over on the couch to make room for Tristram.  
  
Tristram goes over and sits down next to him. He's already anticipating the warm comfort of his father's arm around his shoulders, but it doesn't come.  
  
Instead, Father says: "Do you think you could fall asleep here on the couch? I'll be working at my desk or in the kitchen."  
  
Tristram nods, willing the lump in his throat away. Why does he feel so lonely all of a sudden? Father is going to be right there all night, close enough to see and hear as long as Tristram wants.  
  
His father rewards him with a small smile. "Good. Lie down here then, and I'll put my coat over you. That should be warm enough." He stands up, and Tristram lies down with his head against one of the armrests. A moment later, the comforting weight of the black wool coat settles over him. It smells like cold air and cigarettes (he's only seen his father smoke on very rare occasions, but he knows that the coat spends a lot of time around people who do), and Tristram feels the tension melt out of his body.  
  
His father switches off the lights then sits at his desk, illuminated by the glow from his computer screen.  
  
"Good night," Tristram says softly.  
  
"Good night," his father murmurs, his attention already elsewhere.

  
&&&&&&

  
Tristram's father stays in on Sunday, but he's thinking, so Tristram isn't able to ask him when Doctor Watson and Emily are going to come for dinner. They obviously can't come until he's done with the case, anyway; not only is his father too pre-occupied and tetchy when he's involved in a case, he needs to actually be physically home for a couple of hours in the evening in order for the invitation to work out.  
  
It's still raining, and boring, but Mrs Hudson comes round to fuss at them and invites Tristram down to hers to play a game of Snap. Tristram told her about Exploding Snap the other day, and she exclaimed that was a real game, only without explosions, and taught it to him. Tristram's much quicker than she is, of course, so he nearly always wins, but she's a good sport and plays just as long as he likes. He's going to teach Emily the next time they get together.  
  
He reads some more of the Harry Potter book that afternoon. It's much longer than the first three books, at over six hundred pages! He gets as far as the introduction to the Triwizard Tournament when it's time for dinner. There haven't been any more scary parts. He's beginning to think Doctor Watson might simply not have wanted to read such a long book.  
  
He sleeps on the couch again that night. They don't talk about it; Tristram just comes down after changing into his pyjamas, brushes his teeth, then tugs his father's coat down from the hook and heads for the couch. His father turns off the lights, picks up his violin and plays wandering, wistful tones that never really coalesce into a proper melody.  
  
Tristram wakes up once during the night, probably from another bad dream, but he doesn't remember it; only a vague feeling of unease remains. The rain is drumming lightly on the windows, and a light in the kitchen is still burning. Tristram can see his father slouched in one of the armchairs, both arms extended across the arm rests. His head is tilted back with his eyes closed and his bare feet are stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. His mouth is slightly open. Tristram watches him until his eyes drift shut again.

  
&&&&&&

  
On Monday morning, the rain's stopped, and his father walks with him to school. He's in thinking mode. Tristram knows better than to bother him by asking about Emily and Doctor Watson's visit. He doesn't stick around to wait for Emily and her father, either, just wishes Tristram a good day absentmindedly and walks away, already in the middle of sending a text message.  
  
Word's got around school about what happened to Tristram and Emily. Tristram suspects Olivia, but Emily stood up staunchly for her discretion, so he can't say anything more against her. It doesn't matter who blabbed, anyway. It's the truth that he and Emily were kidnapped. Tristram has nothing to be ashamed of. (Except for the fact that he had explicit instructions only to go with Emily's father. No one's said this out loud yet, but Tristram knows his father hasn't forgot it. Father never forgets anything important like that.)  
  
Surprisingly, the story has elevated them somewhat in the regard of Sebastian and his cronies, who have been badgering them for details about the bad guy, the bomb, and how they got away. To Tristram's relief, no one's thought so far as to wonder _why_ Tristram and Emily were kidnapped. Tristram supposes he probably has the thin and illogical plots of television series to thank for that, where people are kidnapped and blown up just because the bad guys are bad and the good guys need someone to save.  
  
When Doctor Watson and Emily arrive, they greet Tristram with big smiles. "Did you come on your own this morning?" Doctor Watson asks. It's a friendly enough question, but there's a slight crease in his forehead.  
  
Tristram understands why: he knows that all of their adults - their fathers, Emily's aunts, and Tristram's uncle - are worried about someone taking them again (and, unspoken, that Tristram at least cannot be trusted to follow simple instructions). And - something else that no one has said anything to him about, but that he knows is true - the really bad guy, the bogeyman, the one who made Emily's Aunt Claire do what she did, and had her killed after, is still out there.  
  
Tristram shakes his head and reassures Doctor Watson: "No, my father walked with me. He had something to take care of, though, so he already left."  
  
Doctor Watson seems both satisfied and disappointed by that. Maybe he wanted to talk to Tristram's father about Tristram coming over to their house after school. He'll have to ask Emily at break, because the bell is already ringing for them to go inside.

  
&&&&&&

  
At break, though, Emily shakes her head when Tristram asks. "You can't come today. I'm going to see a lady."  
  
"For what?"  
  
Emily shrugs. "She's got some games or something. I don't know. My dad said she might be able to make me feel better."  
  
"Are you sick?" Tristram asks. She doesn't look sick, and anyway she wouldn't be in school if she were.  
  
Emily shakes her head. "No. Not like that. Just... I keep thinking about. You know."  
  
Tristram nods and looks down at his shoes. "Yeah. Me too. And this lady can make you forget it?" He feels a little glimmer of hope as he asks, because if someone could simply wipe the entire incident from his mind, maybe he wouldn't always feel like he's about to be found out for having done something very wrong.  
  
"I said I don't know!" Emily sounds annoyed, really annoyed, which makes Tristram shut up. Emily's never been cross with him before. For a moment, Tristram goes cold and doesn't know what to say. Should he apologise? Her face softens immediately, though, just like her father's does when he looks at her. "Look, I'll tell you what happens, okay?"  
  
Tristram nods, but the awkward feeling stays with him for the rest of the break.

  
&&&&&&

  
His father comes to pick him up after school at the same time as Doctor Watson comes for Emily. Tristram hopes they'll make arrangements for dinner at their flat, or for him to go to Emily's after school sometime during the week, but the two men only speak briefly in low voices, close together and half turned away from Tristram and Emily, as if they don't want them to hear. Doctor Watson looks serious and intent, and his father looks like he does when he talks to Detective Inspector Lestrade, equal parts exasperation and excitement.  
  
Tristram opens his mouth to ask Emily if she's ever played Snap, but she's twisting a finger in her hair fretfully, and he remembers she's going to see the lady, so he closes his mouth again and scuffs his shoe against the pavement.  
  
Tristram's father puts his hand on Doctor Watson's shoulder, his head bent down close. Doctor Watson's mouth is in a thin line, and his fist clenches, but he nods. Tristram's father's mouth quirks up, but he's not really happy; it just means he's got his way.  
  
"Come," he calls to Tristram as he walks away, his hands in the deep pockets of his coat. Tristram waves to Emily, who's dragging her feet after her father in the opposite direction.  
  
"When are they coming for dinner?" Tristram asks, half-running to keep up with his father's long strides.  
  
His father frowns, then remembers what Tristram's talking about and says, "I don't know. I'm still working on that case."  
  
"Emily's going to see a lady."  
  
"Yes, I know."  
  
"How do you know?" He's not challenging his father; he's curious. He expects him to say he could tell from the state of Emily's school uniform, or the way she was twisting her hair, but instead he simply replies, "John told me." Tristram is somewhat nonplussed.  
  
"Am I also going to see a lady?" he asks.  
  
"No," his father answers curtly, but after a moment he looks sideways at Tristram and asks, "Do you want to?"  
  
Tristram isn't sure how he's supposed to answer. He has the impression that his father thinks it's a stupid idea, but Tristram would like it if he could get rid of all these bad feelings. He shrugs. If Father thinks it's a stupid idea, it probably is.  
  
His father makes a dissatisfied sound in his throat, but he says, "I'll make an appointment."  
  
Tristram sleeps in the living room again that night. His father looks like he wants to say something, but Tristram studiously avoids his eye as he pulls the coat down and makes a beeline for the couch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

  
  
On Tuesday morning, Tristram's father informs him he'll be going to the Watsons' after school that afternoon. Tristram is so surprised he drops the butter knife. When was this arranged?  
  
"Does Emily's father know?"  
  
Tristram's father frowns in irritation. "Yes, of course he knows. Do you think I'd just send you to someone's house without discussing it with them beforehand?"  
  
Tristram wisely doesn't answer that. Instead, he asks, "Is that what you were talking about with him after school yesterday?"  
  
"No. He called me last night."  
  
Tristram mulls this over as he retrieves the knife from the floor. Emily must have pestered her father to call. It makes him feel good to know that their friendship means so much to her. That's he's important. When he sits back up, he notices that his father has a light smile playing on his lips as he drinks his tea and looks at his newspaper.  
  
"When are they coming to dinner?"  
  
The smile disappears and his father rattles the newspaper impatiently. "By the end of the week, if all goes well."  
  
When they arrive at school, Tristram's father waits until Emily and her father come.  
  
"Tris, you're coming to my house after school!" Emily cries out as soon as she's within shouting distance.  
  
"I know," he says with a big grin.  
  
"I should be there to pick him up by eight," Tristram's father tells Doctor Watson. Tristram feels like his face is going to split from smiling so hard. That's almost five whole hours! The possibilities are endless.  
  
"Should we save you some dinner?" Doctor Watson asks. He seems hopeful.  
  
"No," Tristram's father answers with a glare. "I don't think I could stand to sit through Harry and Clara's inanities."  
  
Doctor Watson grins. "I'll see what I can do."  
  
Tristram's father looks suspicious, but turns to Tristram for a perfunctory good-bye. Doctor Watson hugs Emily and kisses her on the cheek.  
  
"You two wait right here for me after school, all right?" he admonishes them. He says it kindly, but Tristram's stomach twists at the memory of what happened the last time. There is no way he would go with anyone else this time, not even Mrs Hudson. He nods solemnly.  
  
Tristram's father nods too and says, "Until later, John," as he turns to leave, his phone already out and preparing to send a text.  
  
Doctor Watson lays a hand on his arm. "Watch yourself," he says in a low voice.  
  
Tristram's father frowns. "I always do. I'm not the one who-"  
  
"Yes, all right," Doctor Watson says quickly and takes his hand away, glancing at the children. "Keep in touch at least."  
  
His father nods again then walks away, his coat billowing out behind him.

&&&&&&

At lunch, Emily tells him she had fun with the lady yesterday.  
  
"She had all sorts of games and toys. Board games and Legos and dolls and even ping-pong. She let me choose, so I picked the Geomag. I built a pretty good flux capacitor."  
  
"That's all you did? Just build stuff?" Tristram doesn't really see how that's supposed to make Emily forget about what happened, unless the idea is to keep her busy doing other things so she doesn't have to think about it.  
  
"Well, we talked too. She was pretty nice. I wasn't there very long."  
  
"Did it help? Do you still ... remember?"  
  
Emily shrugs. "I'm going to see her again next week."  
  
"My dad says I can go, too," Tristram says shyly.  
  
Emily brightens up. "Really? Together with me?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe." He had the impression that he'd be going on his own, like Emily did yesterday, but maybe he misunderstood.  
  
"If you do, maybe we can play ping-pong!"  
  
Tristram isn't enthusiastic about doing anything that requires physical coordination, but if Emily wants to, he's willing to give it a try. "Okay," he agrees, mustering a smile for her.

&&&&&&

It seems like afternoon classes drag on forever until the bell rings at three-fifteen, dismissing them for the day. Tristram stuffs everything he needs for his homework into his school bag and runs outside, his heavy bag thumping against his leg.  
  
"Tris!" Emily waves at him frantically, jumping up and down so she can see him over the heads of the other children pouring out of the school gate.  
  
"Are you ready?" she asks when he reaches her.  
  
"Your dad isn't even here yet," he says, breathless from running, as he looks around. All he can see is blue uniforms as the other children stream past them.  
  
"I know, let's go out to the kerb. Then we can see him coming." She starts to walk away from the gate.  
  
Tristram hangs back. "He said to wait for him right here." Maybe she forgot.  
  
Emily rolls her eyes, but comes back. "I'm not leaving. I just want to see if he's coming yet."  
  
Tristram stands firm. He doesn't want to contradict her, but it's more important to do what Doctor Watson said. "I'm waiting here." He really hopes that Emily stays, too.  
  
Emily sighs and says, "Fine." Tristram is glad. He wouldn't have known what to do if she'd walked away. They talk about what they want to do when they get to her house, and before they know it, Doctor Watson is there.  
  
"Emily! How was school?" He pulls his daughter into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of her head. Tristram thinks he should be used to how much the Watsons hug and kiss each other by now, but it still makes him feel awkward and slightly embarrassed, and he doesn't know where to look.  
  
"Fine," she answers. "We got our maths tests back. I got an eighty-five."  
  
"Hey, that's great," Doctor Watson says happily. Tristram is surprised, because if he got an eighty-five on a maths test, his father would want to know why. But then Emily is a year ahead of him, so maybe the tests are much harder.  
  
"How about you, Tris?" Doctor Watson asks him.  
  
"It was fine," he answers politely.  
  
Doctor Watson waits a moment to see if Tristram has anything to add, but he doesn't, so he nods and smiles at him. "That's good. Those boys not giving you any more trouble?"  
  
Tristram shakes his head. After Doctor Watson gave Sebastian and his friends a talking-to, they never bothered him and Emily directly any more, although they still whispered and snickered about them from across the school yard or the lunch room. But since Friday Afternoon, even that has stopped.  
  
"Good," Doctor Watson says, satisfied. "Let's go then. I have something for both of you, but I want to wait until we're home so I can explain it to you."  
  
Tristram is burning with curiosity. Things that need explanations are usually interesting. He doesn't think it would be polite to question Doctor Watson any further, but Emily has no such compunctions and pesters and whinges at her father all the way to the Tube station.  
  
Tristram didn't realise that Emily came to school by Tube, but now that he thinks about it, it makes sense. Since she and her father always arrive on foot, he knows they don't come by car. She lives twenty minutes away from his house by taxi, and it's a twenty-minute walk from Tristram's house to the school (only five minutes by car, as he knows from those rare occasions when Uncle Mycroft's assistant has picked him up and dropped him at home), so even though their school is between their houses, she'd have to walk - he quickly does the sum - she'd have to walk for over an hour to get to the school from her house. That seems excessive to do twice every day, especially as Doctor Watson needed a cane to get around until Friday Afternoon. (Tristram hasn't thought about it much, but now he wonders how exactly his leg got fixed. He has the impression that his father had something to do with it.)  
  
Tristram doesn't often travel by Tube; when he goes out with Mrs Hudson, they usually walk or take the bus, since most of the shops she frequents are local. And his father almost always travels by cab, at least when Tristram's with him. So the Underground, in its novelty, is exciting.  
  
The automatic turnstiles scare him a little; he's afraid he'll get caught. But it's a thrilling kind of scared. He knows nothing bad will really happen. The wind that blows out of the tunnel just before the train comes is exciting too, like a harbinger of adventure. He knows what harbinger means, of course, because it's his middle name.  
  
It's only three stops and then they pop out topside, a short distance away from Emily's aunts' house. This is the first time he's been here in the daytime, and also the first time he's walked through the neighbourhood, rather than just going up the walk from the cab to the house. There are fewer shops than where he lives, and there more single houses, like the one where Emily lives, as opposed to blocks of flats. Other than that, though, the buildings and cars look pretty much the same.  
  
Emily's aunts aren't home when they get there. Emily tells him they're at work and don't usually get home until shortly before dinner. It's strange to be there without his father. But he feels safe, and after they wash their hands, Doctor Watson gives them fruit and crackers and milk in the kitchen.  
  
Emily begs him to show them the surprise, so he tells them to finish up their snack while he goes to get it. Tristram takes one more cracker, then rinses it down with the last of his milk and puts his dishes in the sink.  
  
When Doctor Watson comes back, his hands are empty, but he has a playful grin on his face.  
  
"Now we're going to play a guessing game," he says. "I'll give you three clues, and whoever guesses what the surprise is can have it first. But don't worry," he adds. "You're both getting exactly the same thing."  
  
"Is it candy?" Emily asks.  
  
Doctor Watson laughs. "No, it isn't candy, and it isn't anything to eat."  
  
"Is it a magician's kit?" she asks.  
  
"No, now let me give you the clues or we'll be all afternoon while you go through your entire Christmas wish list. Right. First clue: I have both of your surprises in my pockets."  
  
"Candy!" Emily exclaims.  
  
Doctor Watson laughs. "I already told you it's not candy."  
  
Tristram doesn't say anything. Whatever it is must be relatively small - and something that Doctor Watson thinks they will like - but that still leaves countless possibilities. He's learned from his father not to jump to conclusions. He looks at Doctor Watson. He's wearing a jumper, so Tristram can't see if his shirt has any pockets. He doesn't think Doctor Watson would have put anything in there, underneath his jumper, anyway. And he said their surprises were in his pockets, plural, so probably his trouser pockets. The question is, front or back? He's wearing dark blue jeans with a loose fit, so it's hard to tell if there's anything in the front pockets. He could probably see the outline of something in the back pockets, unless it's paper, but he doesn't know if it's against the rules to ask Doctor Watson to turn around. Just then, he catches Doctor Watson's fingers twitch once where they are hanging at his sides, just grazing the outside of the front pockets of his trousers. Tristram smiles to himself. Probably not paper, then, because it would get crumpled in the front pockets.  
  
"Tickets to the circus?" Emily guesses. Tristram is impressed; it looks like she was thinking along the same lines as him, but didn't take quite enough time to reason things out as far as he did.  
  
"Good guess, but no," her father answers. "Tris, do you want to take a guess?"  
  
Tristram shakes his head. There are still too many possibilities.  
  
"You don't need to worry about being wrong," Doctor Watson assures him. "It's just a game. Anything?"  
  
Tristram can see that Doctor Watson is a bit disappointed because it seems like he's not playing along. He is – in fact, he's quite keen on this game – but Doctor Watson said there would be three clues, and it would be premature to make a guess now.  
  
"I need more data," he tells Doctor Watson. He's quite serious, but Doctor Watson laughs.  
  
"Of course you do. Second clue then: it's something for you to use in an emergency."  
  
That narrows it down somewhat. Of course, 'emergency' is rather broad. It could be a twenty-pound note to get a cab home in case they get lost, or a Swiss army knife, which could be useful in any number of situations, or even some of those charcoal pills to take in case of poisoning.  
  
"A whistle?" Emily ventures.  
  
"That's a very good guess," Doctor Watson says. "But still not right. Tris?"  
  
Tristram shakes his head again. The spectrum is still too broad.  
  
Doctor Watson gives Tristram a knowing smile. "All right, I know, more data. Third clue: Sherlock and I can also use it to know where you are."  
  
Emily screws up her face and looks at Tristram. "Huh?" Then she brightens again and holds up a finger. "Oh! Is it like Tris's uncle can watch him through the cameras on the street?"  
  
"Not exactly," Doctor Watson says.  
  
Tristram thinks hard. His first idea is a tracking device, but the second clue said that he and Emily could also use whatever it is, and there's not really any way for the person carrying the tracking device to 'use' it. You just let it sit in your pocket, or shoe, or wherever. What is something that he could use in an emergency (for the sake of argument, any emergency, not just poisoning or getting lost) and that would let his father know where he was? His thoughts veer back to Friday Afternoon. He tries to push the images away, but one scene dangles itself in front of him, demanding his attention: in the car, Emily nicked her aunt's phone for him to text his father and tell him where they were going. Yes. He gets a tingly feeling, like something in his brain has slotted into place. He wonders if this is how his father feels when he solves something.  
  
"Tris?" Doctor Watson prompts. "It doesn't matter if you're wrong. Just guess any old thing."  
  
"A mobile phone with a GPS tracker in it," he blurts out.  
  
Doctor Watson's face freezes for a moment, and Tristram is afraid he's said something unforgivably stupid. But then it breaks into just about the broadest grin Tristram's ever seen, and he laughs almost as hard as he did when he told the story about the artillery shell to Tristram's father. Tristram smiles now, too, because he knows he's right.  
  
"Christ, should have known," Doctor Watson says when he's able to speak again. "Tris, that was amazing."  
  
Tristram feels a burst of pride, because that's one of the things Doctor Watson said to his father when he was telling them about some of the cases he'd solved. Only he'd said it softer, and it sounded like it meant more than just the words. Now, he says it in a jolly way, and it means exactly that: Tristram has done something amazing. Tristram can't stop grinning. He can't wait until his father comes so he can tell him.  
  
"Yes, that's exactly what it is," Doctor Watson says. "Here." He reaches into one of his pockets and holds out a blue phone to Tristram.  
  
"Let me see!" Emily leaps forward. "I get one too, you said."  
  
"This one's for Tristram, he guessed right."  
  
Tristram reaches out and takes the phone. It's smaller and rounder than the flat, sleek black and silver phones that adults have. The case is a burnished metallic blue, and the display is larger than the keypad. In fact, there are only four keys arranged around a cross-shaped directional pad. The keys are numbered 1, 2, and 3, and the fourth key has a telephone receiver symbol on it, probably for starting and ending calls. Tristram wonders how he's supposed to dial with only three numbers. But still. A phone! He bets not even Sebastian has his own phone.  
  
"Cool," Emily says from where she's hanging over his shoulder.  
  
"Come on, let's sit down and I'll show you how it works." Doctor Watson goes to the kitchen table and takes an identical phone out of his other pocket. "This one's yours, Ems, but I'm going to use it to show both of you how to use them. You can have it in a minute," he says in response to her pout.  
  
It turns out the three numbered keys are quick-call buttons for three phone numbers. Tristram's phone has his father's, Uncle Mycroft's, and Doctor Watson's numbers programmed in. Emily's has her father's and those of her two aunts.  
  
"Can I change the third one?" Emily asks. "I don't need both Aunt Clara and Aunt Harry."  
  
"This isn't for chatting with your friends," her father reminds her. "It's to reach a trusted adult in an emergency."  
  
"I thought..." She looks at Tristram hesitantly. "Could I have Tris's dad in there? It's only fair, if he's got you." She seems to be asking Tristram's permission, so Tristram shrugs and nods. It doesn't matter to him one way or the other. In fact, he's pretty happy to hear that she trusts and likes his father so much. He'd worried earlier that she would find him odd or off-putting, the way so many people seem to – and especially as Father and Doctor Watson got off to such a rocky start - but she's been nothing but enthusiastic and interested in him from the start.  
  
Doctor Watson looks at Emily with a weird kind of half smile on his face. "I'll have to make sure that's all right with Sherlock," he says finally, "but I think that's probably a good idea. Who do you want to leave in then, Harry or Clara?"  
  
"Aunt Clara," Emily says decisively. "She doesn't get all silly like Aunt Harry, you know-" She rolls her eyes around and lets her tongue loll out of her mouth and rocks back and forth on her chair.  
  
Tristram giggles because Emily does look very silly. He can't imagine her Aunt Harry acting like that, but then he's only seen her twice.  
  
Doctor Watson doesn't seem to think it's funny, though. He frowns and fiddles with the controls on the phone and says, "That's not nice, Emily."  
  
Emily stops, but giggles back at Tristram.  
  
Doctor Watson hands Emily her phone. "All right, you can have it now. I've taken Harry out, but left the third number blank. We can fill it in when Sherlock comes tonight, if he says it's okay."  
  
"Can I try to call you now?" Emily asks eagerly.  
  
"Sure," her father says, getting out his own phone. "That's a good idea, let's make sure you know how to use it."  
  
Emily goes through the steps he showed her, then holds the phone to her ear. "It's ringing, why isn't your-" she says, but just then, Doctor Watson's phone buzzes.  
  
"Hello?" he answers, as if he didn't have any idea who was calling.  
  
"Daddy, can you hear me? It's Emily," she says gleefully.  
  
"Yep, I can hear you fine. Can you hear me?"  
  
"Yes, it works!"  
  
"Is anything wrong?" he asks.  
  
"No, it's great! We're sitting in the kitchen trying out our new phones."  
  
"Okay, then you shouldn't be calling me, right?" He winks to let her know he's not really scolding her. Because of course he told her to call him. "Only call me if something's wrong."  
  
"Okay," she says, grumbling a bit. "Bye, Dad!"  
  
"Bye, Ems." He turns to Tristram. "Okay, your turn."  
  
"Should I call my father?" Tristram's excited to try, because his father really is somewhere else and it would be an actual phone call, not just pretend.  
  
But Doctor Watson says, "Better not. He's working on something pretty important and we don't really need to call him. But you've got me in there under number three. Go ahead and try me."  
  
Tristram tries not to be disappointed, because of course Doctor Watson's right. Real emergencies only. He pushes number three, and Doctor Watson answers. They just make sure that they can hear each other fine, and then hang up.  
  
After that, Doctor Watson explains about the GPS tracker, which will send a signal as long as the phone is turned on. He also goes through some scenarios with them of when it would be appropriate to use the phone: if the adult who's supposed to pick them up from school doesn't show up, if they get hurt while they're home alone - only something big, not just like a stubbed toe - and of course if someone they don't know tries to make them go with them. In that case, Doctor Watson says it's probably best if they don't even take the phone out of their pocket, but just push the call button and any one of the numbers. When their trusted adult answers and doesn't hear Tristram or Emily speak, they'll know something is very wrong and go to the internet site where they can track the phone.  
  
So of course it's very important that they keep the phone on them at all times, not in their school bag or jacket, because if there were a fire alarm or something, it would get left behind. They are not to show their phones to anyone or take them out and play with them. All in all, the whole thing is scarier and less fun than it seemed at first. Because if Doctor Watson and his father are giving them these phones (and Tristram is certain this is something that his father knows all about already), then they must think there is a good chance that something like Friday Afternoon will happen again.  
  
But if it's going to happen, Tristram is glad he's better prepared now. He knows not to go blindly with anyone, even if he knows them, unless his father has specifically told him beforehand that it's all right. And he knows how to call for help with the press of a single button. He fingers his phone in his pocket, memorising the position of each button, so he's sure to press the right ones without looking when the time comes.  
  
Doctor Watson makes them fetch their school bags next and do their homework there at the kitchen table, while he tidies up from their snack and starts getting things ready for dinner. Tristram's done with his homework before Emily is, so he reads ahead in his science textbook, because it has some interesting things about photosynthesis later on.  
  
Finally, finally, after Doctor Watson has checked both of their homework and Emily's redone her spelling, he says they can go play. Tristram wants to play Snap, but Emily wants to play 'Emergency'. Tristram agrees to play Emergency first, because he really does like the feel of his phone in his hand.  
  
First, Tristram pretends he falls and twists his ankle on the way to school and has to call his father, played by Emily. He doesn't really push the buttons on his phone, of course, but he already knows by feel which ones to use. Emily comes and picks him up and drags him to 'school', which they get into a bit of an argument over, because if he were really hurt, his father would either take him home or to the doctor, not school.  
  
Then he pretends he's Doctor Watson, and Emily pretends someone's trying to drag her into a car. She screams really loud, and Tristram actually gets scared because she sounds just like she did in the warehouse when he was tied up and she was trying to get to him.  
  
"Okay, I pushed the button for my father," she tells him in her normal voice, with her hand in her pocket, because of course she's not supposed to take her phone out. Tristram's hands are shaking and he can't remember what he's supposed to do if he can't talk to her.  
  
"Go get on the computer and track me," she tells him impatiently, then resumes resisting her imaginary kidnapper.  
  
Tristram looks around for something to use as a computer, but before he can move, Doctor Watson appears at the door. His eyes are wide and he looks like knives and danger. Tristram freezes. He doesn't ever want that look directed at him.  
  
"What's going on?" he asks.  
  
"We're just playing," Emily says, but she sounds uncertain.  
  
Doctor Watson relaxes a bit. "I heard you screaming bloody murder."  
  
"We were playing Emergency."  
  
"Well don't," he says in clipped tones. "I told you those phones were not for games. If you can't leave them be, then I'll collect them for now."  
  
"We weren't actually using them, we were just pretending," Emily insists. Tristram runs his fingers over the phone in his pocket. Upper left for Father, upper right for Uncle Mycroft, lower left for Doctor Watson, lower right to complete the call.  
  
"Pretend a little less realistically," he says, looking like his normal, calm self again.  
  
"Okay," Emily says, and Tristram nods.  
  
After he leaves, they get out a pack of cards and play Snap until their hands sting and they're laughing so much they make more mistakes than matches. They agree to call it a draw, and go rummage in the recycling bin for parts for their time machine.  
  
They have frozen pizzas for dinner. Emily's aunts are quieter than the last two times Tristram saw them. He supposes they're tired from working all day, or maybe they don't have anyone to giggle about without Tristram's father there. All of the adults drink wine with their dinner, and when the bottle's empty, Aunt Harry gets up to fetch some more. Doctor Watson and Aunt Clara give each other a look and Doctor Watson presses his lips together, but all he says is that Emily and Tristram should finish up and take their dishes to the kitchen.  
  
They do, but before they go back into the dining room, Emily stops at the door and indicates that Tristram should be quiet. She wants to hear what the adults are saying. Tristram shakes his head. He doesn't want to get in trouble, especially not with Doctor Watson, but she stomps her foot, glares at him, puts her finger to her lips and cracks the door open.  
  
"This is going too far, John," Emily's Aunt Clara is saying in a low, serious voice.  
  
"You're the ones who encouraged me to get involved," Doctor Watson hisses.  
  
"To get a leg over, not to play Black Ops," Aunt Harry snipes.  
  
"Look, we're already involved, whether we like it or not. Claire made sure of that."  
  
"And we can get out again. Break it off. No man's worth your family's life."  
  
"You're out of line, Harry," Doctor Watson says, and a shiver runs down Tristram's spine at the threat in his voice. "We're not even-"  
  
"Are you actually doing the washing up in there?" Aunt Clara's voice sings out, loudly.  
  
The other adults fall silent. Emily rolls her eyes and Tristram tenses up; now they're going to be caught. Father's told him time and again not to eavesdrop. It's not any better that Emily was the one who suggested it.  
  
The door opens and Doctor Watson looks down at them, then sighs and rubs his hand down his face. "Go up to your room and ... find something to do until Sherlock comes," he says tiredly. When he takes his hand away, there are lines all over his face, but he's smiling, even if it's a small smile."Can you do that? And no playing Emergency either. I don't think your aunts could handle it right now." Tristram didn't expect that to be Doctor Watson's reaction. He hasn't even said anything about them listening in when they shouldn't have. Maybe he doesn't know they heard anything.  
  
"Sure, Dad," Emily says. She ducks under his arm to go back into the dining room, but he scoops her up and cradles her, as if she were a baby, even though her legs hang down way past his arms. Tristram expects her to squirm and try to get away because she's too big for that, but instead she kind of melts down against him and puts her arms around his neck. He leans in to nuzzle her face. "I love you, Ems," he says quietly.  
  
She mumbles something back, probably that she loves him too.  
  
Tristram has a knot in his stomach. He clenches his hands at his sides. He wants to run his fingers over the buttons of his phone, but he's afraid Emily's father will think he's playing with it. Doctor Watson looks over Emily's head at Tristram. Tristram drops his eyes to the floor.  
  
"Jesus," Doctor Watson whispers. Then he says, steadily, "Tris, come here."  
  
He kneels down, still holding Emily. She twists around to see. Tristram hesitates, but shuffles forward until he's standing right next to the two of them. Doctor Watson's eyes are sad, but he's smiling. He puts one hand on Tristram's arm and squeezes it gently.  
  
"You know you're a good kid, right, Tris? A great kid. The best."  
  
Tristram doesn't know what that's supposed to mean. He tries to be good, and he thinks he mostly succeeds. It's not like he does mean things to other kids. He's good at some things, like keeping his room and his desk tidy and remembering to brush his teeth, and he's probably the best in his class at reading, but he's not great at sports or group work or making his father laugh - not like Doctor Watson is. But he doesn't think Doctor Watson really wants an answer. He's trying to tell Tristram something, not get answers out of him.  
  
"Your dad loves you. More than anything," Doctor Watson says. His eyes are so blue and earnest that Tristram believes him for a second. He knows his father cares about what happens to him, and he's probably the most important person in his father's life. But secretly, he knows that his father loves his work better. He loves solving mysteries and being smarter than the police and teasing meaning out of tobacco ash and flakes of nail polish. He knows he can't say that, though, because that's the kind of thing that people other than him and his father and Uncle Mycroft don't understand.  
  
Doctor Watson squeezes his arm again, his hand warm and solid through Tristram's shirt.  
  
"Like you love me," Emily says happily and smiles at her father.  
  
"Like I love you," Doctor Watson says. He gives her one last snuggle that turns into a tickle, and then she rolls out of his arms and squirms around on the floor, squealing with delight while his fingers chase her.  
  
No, Tristram thinks, watching them. Not like that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Tristram tells Emily about _Goblet of Fire_ while they cut up toilet paper rolls to fashion the gauges for their time machine. She agrees that what he's read so far isn't any scarier than the final confrontation with Voldemort in the first book, or the part where Ginny was abducted and almost bled to death in the second book, for that matter. Tristram tells her that if her father still won't read the book with her, he'll read it and tell her what happens.  
  
"Your dad is so cool," she says wistfully. "I can't wait to come to your house and see the frozen foot."  
  
"I think he's done with that one," Tristram says. In fact, his father hasn't been doing any experiments at all the past few days. "But I'm sure he'll have another experiment soon," he's quick to assure her. He certainly never sits idle for long. (And thinking isn't being idle!)  
  
They have the time machine nearly finished - all it needs is a power source - by the time the doorbell rings downstairs.  
  
"That's my dad!" Tristram exclaims and jumps to his feet. He's out the door in a flash, excited to show off his phone and tell how he won the guessing game, with Emily close on his heels.  
  
As they clatter down the stairs, Tristram's heart leaps at the sight of his father's lean figure standing in the entryway with Doctor Watson.  
  
"Father!" he cries happily.  
  
His father turns to look up at him, his eyes crinkling up in quiet pleasure. "Tristram," he says warmly. "I take it you had a good time."  
  
Tristram pulls out his phone and waves it. "Look, I got a phone. Can I try to call you now?"  
  
His father looks at Doctor Watson. "You could at least have got them a proper phone," he huffs.  
  
"It is a proper phone, Sherlock. I didn't think they really needed video capture, voice recognition, and HD streaming."  
  
Tristram's father snorts.  
  
"It's easy to use and they won't be tempted to take it out and play with it," Emily's father says firmly. "Right?" he prompts Tristram and Emily.  
  
"Emergencies only," Tristram says, to show that he understands it's not a toy. "May I please call you now?" he asks his father.  
  
"Why would you want to do that?" he replies, as if that were a ridiculous idea. "I'm right here. Get your coat on." He doesn't say it in an angry way. He just wants to be efficient. He probably left the cab waiting outside.  
  
"Actually," Doctor Watson says, "I'd like to borrow your dad for a bit." He reaches up to take his own coat down, keeping his eyes on Tristram's father. "There's something I need to talk to him about."  
  
Tristram's father watches him warily, trying to deduce what Doctor Watson wants.  
  
"Come on," he says, inclining his head toward the door. "I'll buy you a coffee. I'm sure you haven't had dinner yet."  
  
Tristram takes a step closer. What about him? His father came to pick him up, not to go have coffee with Doctor Watson.  
  
"Tris, you don't mind staying with Emily a little longer, do you?" Doctor Watson asks, as if he's read Tristram's mind. He already has his coat on. It doesn't matter whether Tristram minds or not. "The two of you can ask Aunt Clara to put in a DVD for you. Nothing too wild, it's a school night," he says with a smile.  
  
"When will you be back?" Emily asks in a thin voice, and Tristram realises she's as unhappy about this change in plans as he is.  
  
"We won't be long," Doctor Watson assures her. "Now I want you ready for bed - pyjamas on and teeth brushed - by the time I get back. I've already told Aunt Clara to make sure you do." He leans down and gives her a hug and a kiss. "I'll come up to tuck you in as soon as I'm back."  
  
He straightens up and gives Tristram's father a meaningful look. "Sherlock, perhaps you'd like to say good-bye to your son and tell him you'll be back to collect him soon."  
  
"Of course," he says impatiently, glancing at Tristram, "this won't take long. I don't even want any coffee," he adds pointedly to Doctor Watson. But he still opens the door and holds it for the other man.  
  
"Come on then, you two," a voice says from the living room. Tristram didn't even realise that Emily's Aunt Clara was standing there. By the time he looks back where his father was standing, the door is clicking shut.  
  
"Boys trying to be men," Aunt Clara says cryptically, coming over and putting an arm around both Tristram's and Emily's shoulders. "As thick as tree stumps and only about half as useful. Now come and help me pick out a DVD."  
  
"Where's Aunt Harry?" Emily asks as they go into the living room and find no one else there.  
  
"She went to bed, honey," Clara says tiredly. "She wasn't feeling well."

&&&&&&

"Jesus Christ, could you at least pretend to be interested in your son, Sherlock?" John says tightly as they start down the walk. "I know you're good at pretending, when you want to be."  
  
"What are you talking about? Wait, I just need to pay the cab," he says as he walks ahead.  
  
"He's starving for love and attention," John says, following Sherlock to the car idling at the kerb. "He saw me cuddling Emily, and he just about fell apart. Broke my heart."  
  
"Well, we can't have your heart broken, now can we?" Sherlock sneers as he pays the cabbie.  
  
"That's not the point and you know it!" John snaps. "This is your son. You're his everything. He idolises you."  
  
Sherlock steps back onto the pavement once the cab's driven off. "Maybe he should grow up then. Goodness knows I'm a poor role model."  
  
"You could be an excellent role model, if you'd take two seconds to give a damn."  
  
"You don't know me, John. Don't pretend you do just because we've had a cosy family dinner and I'm letting you help me with this."  
  
"Don't patronise me! This isn't about-" John presses his hand to his forehead. "Can we just- can we walk, or something? They might be watching us from the window."  
  
"They're not," Sherlock says shortly, but he sets off down the street. John settles into a brisk pace to catch up. "Is that what this little chat is for?" Sherlock continues. "To tell me once again what a terrible parent I am? Because frankly, Tristram's only choices for a parent outside of foster care are myself or Mycroft, and if I tell you that Mycroft basically raised me from the age of seven, and this is how I turned out, will you grant that I may in fact be the wiser choice?"  
  
"He- What happened when you were seven?"  
  
"My father died, _obviously_ ," Sherlock snarls. "Mycroft was fourteen. My mother was worse than useless. Multiple suicide attempts."  
  
"Christ, Sherlock, I had no idea, I'm so s-"  
  
"Don't apologise!"  
  
"It's not an apology, it's an expression of sympathy! If you'd actually let people talk for once, maybe you'd find we aren't all such complete idiots."  
  
"Doubtful," Sherlock mutters.  
  
"Look, this isn't-" John sighs. "This isn't why I wanted to talk to you. I actually wanted to know what you found out today. How do things look?"  
  
"Tenuous." Sherlock relaxes as the topic moves onto less emotional fare. "His office is on the thirty-second floor. It's airtight all the way up. No chance of getting in from the inside, unless you want to go full frontal, but you'd need an entire battalion."  
  
"And from the outside?"  
  
"Do you want to play window washer thirty-two stories up?"  
  
"Could be done," John says stolidly.  
  
"If you want to be a sitting duck it could."  
  
"But you've come up with something, haven't you?"  
  
"It's a long shot. Both literally and figuratively."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"And we'd need to get you something better than that SIG. How are you with a rifle?"  
  
"Decent."  
  
"Thirty-two stories up you feel pretty safe, don't you?"  
  
"Unless there's a jumbo jet headed for my inbox."  
  
"Yes, we'll leave that as a last resort, shall we?"  
  
"I still need a couple more flight hours before I'm granted a pilot's license anyway," John says, straight-faced, sliding Sherlock a sideways look.  
  
Sherlock laughs. "You don't consider - other than the window washers, of course, and those will be handpicked and scheduled for a time when no one's in the building anyway - that someone might try and get at you from the outside. Don't consider lines of sight, bulletproof glass, that sort of thing."  
  
John grins. "You've found a way."  
  
"There's another highrise, about half a kilometre away."  
  
His grin falls away. "No way."  
  
"Just listen."  
  
"The winds at that altitude, the trajectory. There's no way. I'd end up hitting someone else."  
  
"I said half a kilometre. It's less, maybe four hundred metres," Sherlock wheedles.  
  
"Even Harrison'd be hard pressed."  
  
"Who's he?"  
  
"Forget it, he's out of the question. And he's still in Afghanistan. Corporal Craig Harrison, holds the world record for the longest distance sniper kill, nearly two and half kilometres. But that was from higher ground with a slight tailwind. No comparison."  
  
"At least we can get whatever weapon he used."  
  
"I'd need to be familiar with it, train with it. Sherlock-"  
  
"Well, help me out here, Captain!" He rounds on John and stands in front of him, glaring down at him with something approaching desperation.  
  
John presses his lips together, locking eyes with Sherlock in a battle of wills. Finally, he says, reluctantly, "Get me a Rockwell Ranger. It's not what Harrison used, but it's what I'm used to."  
  
Sherlock smiles and takes out his phone. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?" He starts typing out a message.  
  
"I'm still not comfortable with it. This isn't a war zone."  
  
Sherlock fixes John with a hard stare. "Just what do you imagine it is, then? He's killed your sister-in-law, likely your wife as well, and kidnapped both of our children. God only knows what he had planned for Tristram. If I could have him arrested tomorrow, I would, but we need evidence and that's rather thin on the ground." He finishes his message and sends it.  
  
John presses his lips together and clenches his fists at his sides as he walks. "I know. We've been through it."  
  
"Then stop it. If this doesn't work, we'll all have to go to ground. I haven't any other choice. If it were just me, there would be alternatives, but having a child - two children - to consider complicates things significantly." He snaps his mobile shut and says, evenly, "Unless you want to walk away, of course. I don't think they'd come after you if you disavow any further contact with me and don't pursue what happened with your wife and her sister." Sherlock keeps walking, looking straight ahead.  
  
"I'm not going to do that and you know it," John says.  
  
Sherlock glances at him sideways, his opinion betrayed only by a small crinkling around his eyes.  
  
"I'll need to practise. It's been a long time," John says.  
  
"I'll get you into the Met's range tomorrow night. I'll have to text you the details later."  
  
John nods, then looks around, suddenly becoming aware of their surroundings. "Sherlock, where are we?"  
  
Sherlock stops and looks up. They are standing in the middle of an expansive paved area in front of a large red and white stadium. "Looks to be a sporting arena of some kind. You're the football fan, I believe." He finishes his text and sends it.  
  
"Yes, this is the Arsenal arena. What I mean is, did we come here on purpose?"  
  
"What do you think?" Sherlock grins mischievously and, pocketing his mobile, sets off for the base of the structure. John follows.  
  
Sherlock leads them to one of the unmarked metal doors in the concrete side of the structure. Thirty seconds later, he has the door open and disappears inside with John on his heels.  
  
"I assume we don't have an invitation," John says as he follows Sherlock up the bare metal stairs. The unpainted concrete walls are lined with exposed ducts and pipes.  
  
"'Invitation' is such a vague term," Sherlock says, already half a floor above him. "I did a favour for the club owner once, and in return he did say he would put my name on the VIP list to attend any match for free."  
  
"There's no match on tonight," John points out.  
  
"We're a bit early is all," Sherlock replies, flashing a grin down at John before he bolts up another flight.  
  
At the top of the stairs is another metal door, but this one is unlocked from their side. They emerge in the top deck of seating. Illuminated only by emergency lights, Sherlock leads the way through the silent rows, climbing higher until they are in the last row, at a point where the roof curves down to touch the outer wall.  
  
"Nice view," John mentions, glancing out the window at the glittering lights of nighttime London.  
  
"It'll get better in a moment," Sherlock says. He stands up on the back of the fold-out seats and pulls a ring spanner out of his coat. Stretching his long arms up, he unlocks an access hatch in the ceiling and pulls down a narrow, extendable ladder, then climbs up through the hole.  
  
"I'm to come up as well, I assume?" John calls up.  
  
"Quick as you like," Sherlock answers, his voice sounding strangely far away.  
  
John steps onto the chairs and clambers up the ladder. He emerges on the roof of the stadium. The wind is a steady flow of cold and damp on his face. Sherlock is standing a few metres away, leaning on one of the thick white struts that criss-cross each other around the circumference of the roof, and looking out at the cityscape.  
  
He turns around to beam at John. "What do you think?"  
  
"I think you're a fucking lunatic is what I think," John says, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind, and being careful not to lose his footing on the gently sloping surface.  
  
"Yes, but what do you _think_?" Sherlock throws his arms wide and turns in a slow circle to encompass the entire panorama.  
  
"I think if we get arrested for trespassing tonight, you can forget about your plans for Moran."  
  
Sherlock clicks his tongue. "They wouldn't even hold us overnight; in and out."  
  
John sighs indulgently and comes over to stand next to Sherlock. He looks out at the city: the mostly dark patches near them dotted with street lamps that look like fairy lights from this height; the more distant bands of white and yellow marking floors in highrises, topped by flickering spots of red and white warning away aircraft.  
  
Sherlock draws closer and points, his arm reaching through the bars that are keeping them safe. "That one, with what looks like a diagonal line running up its side."  
  
John tries to follow the line of his arm. "Which, the one to the right of the pointy roof?"  
  
"Yes, but not immediately. There, just-" He stoops down so his head is at the same level as John's and their shoulders are touching. "There."  
  
John tilts his head over so that his eye is lined up with the end of Sherlock's finger. All of a sudden, he can feel Sherlock's breath on his ear. "The one-" John clears his throat. "The one with the three white lights along the top?"  
  
He turns his head to look at Sherlock. Sherlock is watching him closely, his lips slightly parted. John doesn't miss the fact that Sherlock's eyes flick down to his mouth.  
  
"Yes, that's his," Sherlock agrees, his eyes not leaving John's face. They both stand there, breathing and watching, teetering on the edge of something. Sherlock breaks the moment then, directing his sight back out to the city. "And that one-" He shifts his arm slightly to the right. "-is the one that I can get access to."  
  
"Okay," John says, still watching Sherlock.  
  
"You're not even looking," Sherlock says.  
  
"It's okay, I said I'd do it," John says quickly. "Sherlock, look at me."  
  
Sherlock drops his arm and straightens up, tilting his face down toward John. "John..." he says in a low voice, something between a warning and a plea.  
  
"Just do it." John runs his tongue quickly over his lower lip. "For God's sake, we've been dancing around this for weeks now."  
  
"I don't know-"  
  
"I don't know either, but we won't get an answer any other way."  
  
Sherlock leans marginally closer, his eyes darting over John's face, his hair, his mouth.  
  
John whispers, low and tight, "Please. I don't-"  
  
Sherlock closes the gap, brushing skin against skin, sharing air for a moment. Then John cocks his head to one side and leans in, sealing their connection before coming up again for quick intake of breath, enough to sustain them before pressing his mouth against Sherlock's again.  
  
Sherlock grasps John's arms, pulling him closer, holding him in place so he can nudge John's lips open farther, nuzzle against his cheek, lean his forehead against John's and suck the breathless gasps out of his mouth.  
  
They kiss slowly, small unwitting sounds from both of their throats mingling and encouraging, pleading and confirming, circling them before being blown away by the wind.  
  
After, John butts his head against Sherlock's shoulder. His hands grip the pockets of Sherlock's coat. "Jesus... Jesus..." he murmurs.  
  
Sherlock slides his hands around until they are resting on John's back, and pulls him closer.  
  
John turns his head to put his lips against Sherlock's neck, up into the soft flesh hidden under the corner of his jaw, where his life pulses hot and thick and fast. He makes a muffled sound, and Sherlock answers with a low rumble in his throat.  
  
Sherlock moves his leg closer, insinuating it between John's. John draws in a sharp breath, and pushes back, takes a step away, and Sherlock drops his hands.  
  
"My God, that was-" John says, soft and shocked, directing his words somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock's breastbone.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says with round eyes, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides. "I think that's normal," he adds after a moment, uncertainly.  
  
John looks up at Sherlock, trying to gauge whether he's arsing him or not. "Yeah, that's-" He takes in Sherlock's expression, and laughter bubbles up out of his throat. "Yes, it's normal, Christ, we're both completely normal." He smiles and presses one more kiss to Sherlock's lips.  
  
"Normal's boring," Sherlock says against John's mouth, and John can feel his smile in return.  
  
"You're right," John agrees, separating himself from Sherlock but looking at him fondly. "Maybe we are a bit unhinged at that."  
  
One side of Sherlock's mouth hitches up. "'Fucking lunatic', I believe were your exact words."  
  
John points at Sherlock. "I only meant you." But it's clear he's teasing. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks around, then lets out a long breath. "We should go back. The kids."  
  
Sherlock nods and brushes past John toward the access hatch. John pauses to look back at the two buildings he pointed out, then hunches his shoulders against the wind and follows Sherlock.

&&&&&&

It's been over an hour. Seventy-three minutes. They're watching _Wallace & Gromit_. Emily wanted to show Tristram the cartoon about the coyote and the road runner, but they don't have that on DVD. Tristram doesn't mind. The funny man with the big teeth and his clever dog are brilliant. They even solve a mystery, like his father, although Tristram's pretty sure his father never had to deal with a were-rabbit.  
  
Emily's Aunt Clara sent her up to get ready for bed at eight forty-five. Now Emily's curled up in an armchair with a crocheted throw over her, staring at the telly.  
  
Her aunt keeps checking her watch. Her forehead and the corners of her mouth are pulling lower and lower.  
  
Tristram wonders what Doctor Watson had to discuss with his father that they couldn't do here, or over the phone. It couldn't take that long to ask him if it's okay to program his phone number into Emily's phone.  
  
Seventy-four minutes.  
  
The sound of a key in the front door startles everyone into action. Emily and Tristram jump up and run toward the front hall. Tristram doesn't even care that the DVD isn't done yet. He already knows that the were-rabbit is actually Wallace. Obvious.  
  
Emily's aunt follows.  
  
"Daddy!" Emily cries happily as her father enters. His cheeks and the tops of his ears are red from the fresh air. She throws herself around him, not even waiting for him to take off his jacket.  
  
Behind him, Tristram's father comes in, his keen eyes seeking out Tristram but not saying anything. There is also colour in his cheeks; more, Tristram thinks, than is explicable by the weather. Maybe he and Doctor Watson had words again. Tristram stands where he is uncertainly.  
  
"Hi, Ems," Doctor Watson says, cradling the back of her head with one hand. "Did you have a good time?"  
  
"You're late," she complains.  
  
"It's only-" He looks at his watch and grimaces. "Yes, I guess we are a bit. Sorry." He glances at Emily's aunt, who is standing back in the doorway to the living room with her arms crossed over her chest, looking from Doctor Watson to Tristram's father.  
  
"Thanks, Clara," Doctor Watson says.  
  
"It's time for her to be getting to bed," she says, eyebrows raised.  
  
"Yes, it is," he agrees. He puts both hands on Emily's shoulders. "Say good-bye to Tris. You'll see him in school tomorrow."  
  
Emily turns around and waves at him. "Bye, Tris."  
  
"Bye, see you tomorrow." Tristram reaches up and pulls on his jacket where it is hanging, but it won't come down. Doctor Watson starts to reach for it, then drops his hand and looks at Tristram's father.  
  
He makes an annoyed sound, but unhooks the jacket. "If you installed a coat rack at an appropriate height, that wouldn't happen." At their flat, Tristram has his own row of hooks that he can easily reach.  
  
Doctor Watson grins. "You're not so pants at this whole fatherhood thing after all."  
  
Tristram's father rolls his eyes, but Tristram can tell he's trying not to look pleased. Perhaps they didn't argue after all.  
  
"Well, Tris," Doctor Watson says. "We've very much enjoyed having you. You're welcome to come over any time at all, if it's okay with your father." He looks up at Tristram's father.  
  
Tristram looks at him too, hoping it is okay. A blanket invitation to come over any time he likes!  
  
But Tristram's father gets all stiff. "I'm perfectly capable of arranging child care for my son," he says coolly.  
  
Doctor Watson takes a step so he is closer to Tristram's father - really close - and lays a hand on his arm and says quietly, "Emily and Tris are friends. They like to play together. That's all." Tristram sees Doctor Watson's hand squeeze his father's arm, and his thumb rubs over the coat sleeve a couple of times.  
  
Then they stand there and stare at each other for pretty long, until Emily's aunt clears her throat pointedly.  
  
Tristram's father looks away from Doctor Watson to glare at her, but he nods. "All right."  
  
Tristram and Emily share a gleeful smile.  
  
"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Tristram says dutifully, holding out his hand to shake Emily's father's hand.  
  
"You're welcome," he says with a kind smile.  
  
Tristram thanks Emily's aunt and shakes her hand, too. It's soft and he barely feels like he's touching anything at all before she withdraws.  
  
From outside, a car horn sounds.  
  
"Come, Tristram," his father says. "That will be our cab." He tucks his scarf in around his neck more tightly.  
  
Doctor Watson reaches around to open the door for them. "Good night, Sherlock," he says.  
  
"John."  
  
Tristram hopes they don't do one of those interminable handshakes like they did last time. They don't. In fact, they don't shake hands at all. They just stare at each other some more. Doctor Watson licks his lips and opens his mouth a bit, and Tristram thinks he's going to say something, but then he just looks down and steps back so that Tristram and his father can go out.  
  
In the cab, Tristram's father immediately takes out his phone and starts texting. He looks annoyed at first, but soon he has a small smile on his face, and then he actually chuckles out loud at the small, glowing screen.  
  
Tristram likes it when his father is happy, even if it has nothing to do with Tristram. He's feeling cosy and safe, and he has the promise that he can go to Emily's house any time they want now, so he's pretty happy himself. The rumbling of the car engine is making him drowsy when he hears his father say, "Why don't you try calling me now, Tristram. I don't trust that John programmed that thing correctly."  
  
Tristram sits up and takes his phone out. He can't properly see the buttons in the intermittent stripes of light that fall into the cab from the street lamps, but of course he knows where everything is by touch. He pushes '1' and then the call button. The phone buzzes in his ear, and then the chime for an incoming call sounds on his father's phone.  
  
He taps the screen to accept the call. "Yes," he says into it.  
  
Tristram hears his father's voice in stereo. "It works!" he says, still holding the phone to his ear. "Can I try calling Uncle Mycroft too?"  
  
Tristram's father disconnects the call and re-pockets his phone. "You may ask him on Thursday, when you see him. By the way, you and Emily will be spending the night at Mycroft's, but you are not to tell anyone."  
  
Tristram's not sure what to do with that information. It's surprising, to say the least. Of course he'd like to have a sleepover with Emily, but he never told his father that. And why at Uncle Mycroft's? Uncle Mycroft and Emily didn't seem to like each other very much when they met that one time on the way home from school. Wouldn't it make more sense for them to sleep at either Tristram's or Emily's house? Unless his father is worried they might disturb one of his experiments, or Emily's Aunt Harry is really sick. But why does it have to be a secret? And finally, not that Tristram has much experience with these things, but aren't sleepovers usually done on a night when there's no school the next day?  
  
He knows his father doesn't like to be bombarded with questions, though, so he rolls everything into one: "Why?"  
  
"John is helping me with a case. It may get quite late."  
  
"Will Mrs Hudson be gone?" Tristram's stayed at home alone lots of times when his father's been out working late, or even all night. As long as Mrs Hudson is downstairs, it's always been fine before. But even if Mrs Hudson is out, that doesn't explain why Emily has to come too, unless her aunts will also be gone. Tristram hardly thinks this arrangement is simply to give him and Emily a treat.  
  
But Tristram's father says, "No. We would simply feel better with the two of you at Mycroft's."  
  
Tristram recognises from his father's tone of voice that he's not to ask any more. Not about that topic, anyway. But he thinks it might be all right to ask, "Did Doctor Watson tell you about the guessing game we played this afternoon?"  
  
"No, I don't believe he did."  
  
Tristram happily relates the clues, and how he considered and deduced and finally guessed the right answer on the first try.  
  
"Well, of course you did," his father says. "The answer was obvious. He might have made it a little more challenging. But I suppose he geared the game toward his daughter."  
  
Tristram is left feeling slightly deflated. He's not sure whether that means his father thinks he's clever, or the game was too easy, or maybe both. It feels disloyal, but he thinks he liked Doctor Watson's reaction better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Corporal Craig Harrison](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Craig_Harrison_%28sniper%29) is a real person and holds the record cited. All other details are fictional.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

  
Tristram wants to ask when he can go to Emily's house after school again (it's more fun than spending all afternoon alone or having to be quiet so his father can work), but he's afraid to say anything because of how their fathers are acting.  
  
Emily doesn't mention anything about going to Uncle Mycroft's the next day. He's not sure if she doesn't know, or if she's being circumspect, but either way it's better that he not say anything. He is still trying to prove to his father that he's trustworthy.  
  
The school rules say that students aren't actually allowed to carry a mobile phone on school grounds (they are supposed to deposit them with the teacher and pick them up at the end of the day), but Tristram's father said what they don't know won't hurt them, which means as long as no one finds out he has the phone in his pocket, it's okay.  
  
Tristram doesn't have a problem with breaking rules if his father tells him it's okay. He knows that some rules are stupid and sometimes it's better to do what you know to be right, no matter what someone else says, even if that someone else is an adult. One time, Inspector Lestrade stood in their living room and yelled at his father that he was already breaking every (and here he said a bad word) rule in the book to get him some information or other, so he'd (another bad word) well better cooperate.  
  
If the police can break rules for a good reason, then so can Tristram.  
  
Still, he's nervous about having his new phone in his pocket, and he keeps fingering it throughout the school day. He has to force himself to stop, finally, when he has the impression that Sebastian is looking at him curiously. Even though Sebastian's pretty much left Tristram alone lately, if he suspects that Tristram has something interesting in his pocket, he'll probably find a way to get it away from him, and either have it confiscated or - worse - take the mobile for himself.  
  
His father spends the afternoon glued to his own mobile, except when he goes out for an hour and a half, and comes back with some egg rolls for Tristram's dinner.  
  
Tristram can tell something is going on, the way his father paces and snarls and scrapes at his violin. He wants to sleep in the living room again, but he's wary of his father's mood. He's been known to break things. So Tristram retreats to his room upstairs and lies awake, listening to the thumps and caterwauling, and thinking that he's looking forward to spending the night at Uncle Mycroft's.

&&&&&&

When Emily comes to school the next day, her school bag looks suspiciously thick.  
  
"It's a secret, but I'm coming with you this afternoon," she whispers to him after their fathers have left, before they go into the school.  
  
"I know," Tristram whispers back. His school bag also has something extra in it for tonight; something that he hopes he doesn't get in trouble with Doctor Watson for bringing along, but that he thinks Emily will like.  
  
Emily giggles and winks before she goes into her classroom. Tristram is uncomfortable. It's just a fun adventure for her, like it was for him going to her house. But he has a feeling there is more to it. He doesn't know if he should share his concerns with her. There's nothing specific he can point to that makes him apprehensive.  
  
At recess, Emily wants more details about Uncle Mycroft: what's his house like? Does he have a butler? Can he get them some plutonium?  
  
Tristram answers quickly (normal; no; unlikely) and looks around guiltily to make sure no one is listening to them. Olivia and Alice are playing some kind of jumping game, and Sebastian and his friends are nowhere to be seen. "No one's supposed to know, remember?" he says.  
  
"I didn't say anything about _you know_ ," Emily says.  
  
"I know, but I really think we need to be careful."  
  
"Anyway, I don't see what the big deal is. Unless we could get in trouble because it's a school night."  
  
Tristram is sceptical that that's the reason they need to keep it secret. His father isn't exactly a stickler for making sure Tristram gets a certain number of hours of sleep at night, regardless of the day of the week. "What did your father tell you? About why you and I are... _you know_?"  
  
Emily shrugs. "Just that he and your dad are going to be out late."  
  
"But why did he say we have to go to my uncle's house?"  
  
"Because it would be fun," Emily says, as if that should be obvious.  
  
"I only mean, you could just as well stay with your aunts, and I could stay with Mrs Hudson," Tristram tries to explain.  
  
Emily looks hurt. "Do you not want me to come?"  
  
"Yes, I do," Tristram insists. His stomach twists unhappily. This is coming out all wrong. He shouldn't have started.  
  
"Are you afraid the other kids will tease you and call me your girlfriend?" she asks accusingly.  
  
"No!"  
  
"I guess that's why your dad told mine to keep it a secret."  
  
Tristram is confused. Was his father trying to protect him after all from the other kids making fun of them? Because it is a little unusual for a girl and a boy their age to play together outside of a larger group. Then again, that doesn't seem at all like the kind of thing his father would even notice, much less care about.  
  
Tristram shakes his head. "I don't think so. Listen, Emily," he says, leaning in close so that no one can even read his lips if they're watching, "I think your dad is helping mine with a case."  
  
Emily frowns. "Really? But he's a doctor, not a detective."  
  
"Sometimes the police need a doctor. To say what someone died of, or... or in case someone gets hurt." His father's come home before with bruises and cuts, sometimes still bleeding. If he's working on a dangerous case, it makes sense that he'd want to have a doctor with him. "What did you think they were doing?"  
  
"Going on a date."  
  
This is an entirely new concept. Tristram knows what a date is, in theory: it's when two people who fancy each other go out and do something together, like have dinner or go to the cinema or go ice skating in Hyde Park. His father never does any of those things on his own (unless it's for a case), much less with someone else. Well, except for eating out; they have meals at Angelo's at least once a month. But he certainly wouldn't call that a date. However, if his father and Doctor Watson went there together and had dinner, then yes, he supposes that would be a date.  
  
The realisation makes him uncomfortable. Angelo's is for him and his father, not for Doctor Watson. It's not that he doesn't like Doctor Watson, or that he doesn't want his father and Emily's father to get on together. He just doesn't want his father to do things with him that he usually only does with Tristram.  
  
But Emily is a girl, and she has some silly ideas, like her aunts. She also thought that his father and Doctor Watson were kissing, but Tristram hasn't seen any evidence to support that theory. And, his father actually told him that he and Doctor Watson were going to be working on a case tonight.  
  
He doesn't have time to explain that, though, since it's time to go back inside.

&&&&&&

After school, Uncle Mycroft's car is already waiting for them when they come out of school. Tristram is relieved to see that Uncle Mycroft himself is sitting in the back seat. He's not sure what he would have done if it had only been the driver. He knows the man by sight, but he doesn't know his name, and he thought he knew Emily's Aunt Claire and look what happened.  
  
Emily bounces excitedly on the seat, even with the seat belt on, and pushes every button within her reach. She starts laughing when she turns on the massage function. "The seat's buzzing!" she exclaims.  
  
"Your little friend is certainly enthusiastic," Uncle Mycroft says with a tight smile as he leans over to retract the roller blinds.  
  
"Where can you shoot the machine guns from?" she asks, opening various flaps and lids to find more compartments and control panels.  
  
Uncle Mycroft looks alarmed. "Excuse me?"  
  
"The machine guns in the headlights. Don't you have any?"  
  
"Ah yes. Well, unfortunately, we aren't allowed to use them within city limits."  
  
"Uncle Mycroft, do you have any plutonium?" Tristram asks.  
  
Uncle Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up even further. "What an extraordinary request. I'm not sure, I'll have to check. What would you be needing it for?"  
  
"To power our time machine," Tristram explains.  
  
"Oh, I see," Uncle Mycroft says with great gravity. "Do you know, I believe two double-A batteries will do just as well. Perhaps four, if you wish to go back more than a hundred years. Young lady, _please_ leave the ventilation system alone, it's stifling in here as it is."  
  
By the time they pull into the underground garage at Uncle Mycroft's house, he is mopping his brow. He exchanges a pointed look with his driver as he instructs him to return all the controls to their usual settings, then leads Tristram and Emily toward the lift, swinging his ubiquitous umbrella.  
  
"Do you have a sword in your umbrella?" Emily asks.  
  
"Yes, and it's _extremely_ sharp," Uncle Mycroft says with a gleam in his eye. "The last little girl to ask to see it left with only eight fingers, I'm afraid."  
  
"Cool," Emily says.  
  
Tristram grins at her. He knows that Uncle Mycroft's just kidding. Almost a hundred percent certain, anyway.  
  
Uncle Mycroft tells Tristram to show Emily around while he takes care of some business, and to come to his office in half an hour to start their homework.  
  
They go to the kitchen first, because Tristram knows where Uncle Mycroft keeps the biscuits. He always has fancy ones in cello-wrapped boxes, filled with jam or caramel and coated with chocolate or sprinkled with coconut. They eat exactly half a box together, six biscuits each. Emily wants milk with hers, but all they find in the fridge is something called Provamel, which looks like milk, but she has to spit it out after the first sip.  
  
After they wash their sticky fingers, they explore the house. Or rather, Emily explores, while Tristram trots along a couple of steps behind her, half apprehensive that she'll get into something she shouldn't, and half excited to see what happens when she does.  
  
There's the lounge, the formal reception room, and the winter garden, of course. They skip Uncle Mycroft's office for the time being, and go on to the library, which Tristram is especially keen for Emily to like, because it's his personal favourite. She's duly impressed by the tall stacks of books, but she doesn't really get enthusiastic until Tristram pulls out an unassuming book with a crumbling brown cover. Inside, on thick yellow pages separated by thin layers of tissue paper, are the most wonderful, delicately coloured illustrations of lumpy giants and dragons with gossamer wings, wizened old men and hunchbacked crones.  
  
Emily flips back to look at the title page. " ' _Grimm's Fairy Tales, illustrated by Arthur Rackham_ '. What's this?"  
  
"Fairy tales, you know: Rapunzel, Ashenputtel, Rumpelstiltskin..."  
  
Emily laughs. "What language is that?"  
  
"German, I think. But the stories are in English." Tristram carefully turns the brittle pages.  
  
"I know that one!" Emily exclaims, pointing at one of the pictures. "That's Little Red Riding Hood." They turn a few more pages. "And that one's Hansel and Gretel."  
  
They pore over the old book, Emily trying to match up the antique illustrations with the versions she knows from her own nursery books, and Tristram briefly explaining the stories she's never heard of. They end up completely losing track of time, until they hear Uncle Mycroft clearing his throat behind them.  
  
"I believe it's time to start on your homework," he says sternly, but one side of his mouth is quirked up.  
  
Tristram returns the book to its place, and together they follow Uncle Mycroft back to his office.  
  
Emily actually finishes her homework first, and Uncle Mycroft lets her investigate the big floor globe with bumps where the mountains are while Tristram finishes answering his reading questions.  
  
After that, the three of them go to the reception room, where the piano is. Uncle Mycroft sits to the side and allows Emily and Tristram to plunk around on it for a while.  
  
"Uncle Mycroft," Tristram asks as Emily tries to sound out 'Yellow Submarine', "what are Father and Doctor Watson doing tonight?"  
  
Emily's finger hesitates just a moment too long before the next note.  
  
"What did they tell you they were doing?" Uncle Mycroft asks.  
  
"Going out," Emily says at the same time as Tristram answers, "Working on a case." They grin at each other and turn to Uncle Mycroft to see how he will referee the disagreement.  
  
Uncle Mycroft makes a sound that Tristram knows means he's dissatisfied with something Father has done. "I think you can take them at their word," he says diplomatically.  
  
"So they are working on a case," Tristram says, "not going on a date." It's not that he wants to point out that Emily was wrong. He just wants the situation to be clear.  
  
Uncle Mycroft chuckles. "Perceptions may differ," he says, "but I believe, strictly speaking, in the sense you mean, it is neither a case nor a date. They are, shall we say, taking care of some unfinished business. Beyond that, you should speak directly to your fathers if you want any more details."  
  
Tristram understands from his uncle's tone of voice that he's not going to say anything more on the subject.  
  
Emily, however, asks, "Why does my father need to go with him, then? He's a doctor, not a detective."  
  
"Your father, young lady, is a man of many talents. Now, if you would be so kind as to stand up, Tristram and I will regale you with Beethoven's _Sonata for Four Hands_."  
  
Emily gets up and leans against the side of the piano, where she can still see, and Uncle Mycroft slides onto the piano seat beside Tristram. Tristram knows he plays pretty well, but he's nervous about what Emily will think. Beethoven's _Sonata for Four Hands_ is a far cry from the Beatles.  
  
Uncle Mycroft sets up the music and turns on the metronome - slower than the piece would be played in concert, but still fast enough to be challenging for Tristram - then counts down one measure to start. Tristram tries to keep his eyes focused on his own fingers, but he's distracted by Emily hanging over the piano, watching their hands, and he stumbles a few times.  
  
When they get to the end, Tristram's face is burning. He can really play better than that. He's about to apologise for messing up when Emily exclaims, "Wow, you're really good!"  
  
Tristram's embarrassment abates somewhat, and he looks at her shyly. "Really? I missed some of the notes."  
  
"I couldn't tell," Emily assures him. "How can you get your fingers to hit all the keys at the right time like that?"  
  
Tristram shrugs, but Uncle Mycroft answers smugly, "Practice. And not a little natural talent."  
  
"Can you play ' _When I'm Sixty-Four_ '?"  
  
Tristram doesn't know what she's talking about, but Uncle Mycroft laughs. "Not in my repertoire, I'm afraid. You are truly your father's daughter, aren't you?"  
  
That comment doesn't make any sense, either, because who else's daughter would she be? But it's apparently one of those questions that you're not really meant to answer, because Uncle Mycroft goes on to say: "Why don't we try it once more, Tristram, and this time, concentrate and watch the fingering on the crossovers."  
  
"Okay," Tristram says, and the second time it goes better.  
  
Usually, when it's just he and his uncle, they play for at least an hour, but Tristram can tell Emily's getting restless, and Uncle Mycroft sends them off shortly after that to amuse themselves until it's time for dinner.  
  
Tristram stays at Uncle Mycroft's often enough that he has his own drawer in the guest bedroom with a set of pajamas, a couple of changes of clothes and toothbrush. Emily's going to sleep in the guest room, too, so there's already a fold-out bed set up crosswise at the foot of the main bed. Tristram says he'll take the fold-out bed, since Emily's the guest.  
  
"Actually, we're both guests," Emily points out, but happily plops down on the big bed and bounces around a few times. "Your uncle's pretty funny," she says.  
  
Tristram doesn't really think of Uncle Mycroft as 'funny', but he's glad that Emily seems to have warmed to him.  
  
There's an en suite bath attached to the guest room, and when Emily goes in to check it out, she calls to Tristram to join her. "Let's make a potion!" she says.  
  
Tristram goes in to find her collecting personal hygiene products and cleaning supplies from the shower, medicine cabinet, and under the sink.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asks, watching her half warily and half with excitement. Emily always has such good ideas.  
  
"Let's pretend this is Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and we're brewing Polyjuice Potion. Look." She lines everything up on the surface next to the sink. "Do you remember what's in it?"  
  
"Boomslang skin," Tristram says. He remembers because it's what Hermione stole from Snape's office.  
  
"That can be this." Emily reaches over and rips off a square of toilet paper. "What else? Lacewing flies... What can we use for that?"  
  
If they were at Tristram's house, they could use actual flies. There are always a few dead ones lying on the window sills. But Uncle Mycroft has a cleaner. Still, Tristram has an idea. He picks up the bar of soap and scrapes some off with his nails.  
  
"How about this?" He shakes the shavings out from under his nails onto the counter.  
  
Emily beams. "Brill! What else?"  
  
Tristram doesn't remember any more specific ingredients, and neither does Emily, but they say there's dragon blood (green mouthwash) and stewed newt's eyes (pink shampoo) and half a dozen other things, which they mix together in the toothbrush cup. They stir it with a comb, because Tristram draws the line at using his toothbrush, even the back end of it, which was Emily's first suggestion.  
  
As their final ingredient, they each add one of their hairs. It doesn't end up smelling half bad, and it's probably a more cheerful colour than real Polyjuice Potion, but it's lumpy and thick, and by the time they're done, Tristram is quite pleased with the result. He reckons it's worth at least an E, if not an O.  
  
They know better than to really taste it, so they dump it down the toilet, and try to replicate Pepperup Potion next.  
  
By the time Uncle Mycroft comes to find them for dinner, they've used up all the toothpaste and most of the shampoo, and there are white smears on the mirror from where the shaving cream got out of hand. He doesn't actually come into the bathroom, though, so they are spared his opinion on having turned it into a potions laboratory.  
  
They have pink fish and green peas, which Emily will only eat doused with mayonnaise. Uncle Mycroft gives her a pained look and chews each carefully cut bite twenty times (Tristram counts).  
  
After dinner, Uncle Mycroft sends them up to get ready for bed, even though it's only seven-thirty. Tristram doesn't complain; he's never had a regular bedtime, and is used to being sequestered in his room for the night long before he's ready to go to sleep. Emily, though, says seven-thirty is for babies, and hints that Uncle Mycroft isn't as progressive as she first thought.  
  
They take turns changing in the guest bathroom; Tristram rinses out the toothbrush cup thoroughly and does his best to wipe the mirror clean of the rest of the shaving cream after brushing his teeth. When he returns to the bedroom, he finds Emily sitting cross-legged on the big bed, holding her mobile.  
  
"What are you doing?" Tristram asks.  
  
"Do you think it'd be okay if I call my dad?"  
  
Tristram bounces down onto the bed next to her. "They're working."  
  
"I've called my dad at work lots of times. He doesn't mind."  
  
Tristram has never even considered the possibility of calling his father when he was out working. Not that he had a phone to do so with before. Of course his father made him memorise his mobile number practically as soon as he could talk, in case he got lost, but he can't actually recall a time when he's had occasion to use it. He doesn't think his father would take kindly to being interrupted for something that's not an emergency, however, and he tells Emily so.  
  
She looks unhappy, but doesn't push the point. "I just want to know what they're doing," she says in a small voice, and he knows she doesn't mean whether they're kissing or arguing, but whether they're safe.  
  
Tristram can't help with that, but he thinks he should do something to make her feel better, because that's what friends do. If Doctor Watson were here, he'd give her a hug, but Tristram doesn't feel comfortable doing that. Instead, he puts a hand on her knee, because that's what his father does when Tristram needs reassurance (either that or his shoulder, but Tristram can't reach Emily's shoulder as easily from where he's sitting). He wonders if this is how his father feels when Tristram needs to be comforted. Maybe it explains why he doesn't hug and cuddle him more, the way Doctor Watson does with Emily.  
  
"They're probably just looking for something, or talking to someone," Tristram says. From what he's heard his father talking about with clients and the police, that's what most of his work consists of, aside from doing things on the computer.  
  
"You don't think they're chasing after any bad guys?" Emily asks.  
  
Honestly, he can't be certain, and he doesn't want to say something that isn't true, so he tells her, "Even if they are, they'll be okay. They'll be back later tonight and we'll see them tomorrow."  
  
Although he can't be completely certain of that, either. Not really. He knows, in the back of his mind - a thought that he never, never lets himself think to its completion - that there might be a time when his father doesn't come back, when he's not okay. He knows, back there in that secret place, that's why Uncle Mycroft insisted that he play a role in Tristram's life, and why his father agreed to it, even though he would have liked nothing more than to cut his brother off completely. (Tristram never has understood why his father hates Uncle Mycroft so much.)  
  
But Emily seems to be satisfied by his answer, as it coincides with her own hopes and weights the evidence against her own secret fears.  
  
"Hey, I brought something," Tristram says, both to distract her and because he was planning on getting the book out anyway. He gets off the bed and goes to his school bag, which is on the chair by the dresser.  
  
When he comes back, he's grinning and holding the library book he's in the middle of reading.  
  
" _The Goblet of Fire_!" Emily exclaims. But then her face falls a bit. "But my dad doesn't want me to read it."  
  
Tristram settles himself on the bed again. "My father didn't want me to read any of them, but I did anyway, and he wasn't angry. And if I read it _to_ you, then you're not actually reading it, are you?" He smiles at her slyly. Tristram's pretty pleased with himself for coming up with this workaround.  
  
Emily's face twists in indecision as she looks longingly at the book, clearly torn between not wanting to disobey her father and her own inquisitive nature.  
  
"Anyway, I've already told you the beginning," Tristram adds. "And the part with the Death Eaters, and you said yourself it was less scary than the other books."  
  
Emily seems to find this justification acceptable, and says, "Okay, but start at the very beginning, and only read the parts you already told me about."  
  
Tristram grins and opens the book. "Great. Here we go: 'The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it "the Riddle House..."'"


	6. Chapter 6

  
**Chapter Six**   


  
  
"Is he back yet? Bloody bastard." John drops the heavy black duffel bag on the floor.  
  
Mycroft closes the door behind him. "Good evening to you too, Doctor Watson," he says smoothly. "I assume you mean my brother, and no, he isn't here. Am I to take it you were separated?"  
  
"Yes, you are to take it," John says testily. He takes his phone out and jabs at it. He waits for it to connect, but it jumps right to voice mail. "Answer your phone, you fucking arse!" he yells and ends the call.  
  
"John, please." Mycroft glances toward the ceiling. "Unless you wish to hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet..."  
  
"Yeah, how are the kids? Everything go well?"  
  
"Of course." Mycroft leads the way into his office. "Both of them are snug as bugs. Which is more than one can say for the two of you. Have a seat." He goes to his desk and wakes his computer. "What happened?"  
  
John lets himself collapse into an armchair. "God. He ditched me, either got himself caught or snuck in somehow, I don't know, but he ended up face down on the floor over there with a gun pointed at the back of his head."  
  
Mycroft fixes John with a penetrating look. "I assume he got out again safely, based upon the fact that you are here, and not out playing the avenging angel."  
  
"I took care of it in time," John says grimly. "Took two shots though."  
  
Mycroft relaxes slightly. "Bravo, Captain."  
  
John looks down. "No idea where the first one went. If there are any drive-by shootings reported tonight-"  
  
Mycroft taps his computer screen. "Nothing's come in yet, but I'll keep an eye out," he assures him.  
  
"The second one took him down. I couldn't tell if it was a kill or not, but Sherlock gave the thumbs-up through the window. "  
  
"I'm sure he made it out, then," Mycroft says, but he still sounds strained.  
  
"Oh yeah, he did," John says. "Sent me a _text_ " -he spits the word out from between gritted teeth- "about ten minutes later telling me to meet him here." He lifts his phone, which he is still holding in his hand. "And of course he refuses to _answer his phone_!" he yells at the device.  
  
Mycroft stands and goes to the liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. "May I suggest a drink? G and T? Scotch? Brandy?"  
  
"Anything."  
  
"You say he ditched you," Mycroft says as he prepares the drinks. "How did that happen?"  
  
"We were already inside, on our way up, when he said he needed to take care of the security cameras and I should go on without him and get set up. We needed to be ready by the time the meeting started, so it seemed prudent. Once I was in the suite with everything set up and he still wasn't there, I couldn't very well go back down looking for him. So I waited, got the scope lined up and prepared the window, and all of a sudden there was Sherlock in the middle of it."  
  
Mycroft brings John a glass and sits down opposite him. "That's typical Sherlock, of course," he says with a sigh. "Going off on his own, forming plans within plans and neglecting to share them."  
  
"He might have been picked up by one of their men," John says.  
  
Mycroft purses his lips doubtfully. "Maybe. But why would the Colonel have someone stationed over where you were? There's no known connection. They can't have someone in every building in the area, on the off chance."  
  
"So you think he waltzed in there... Why? He would only endanger the mission. He'd know I couldn't shoot into that room if he was in there."  
  
"And yet you did," Mycroft points out.  
  
"Yes, well he was down on the floor, out of my range of sight. And if I hadn't shot, he was about to get a bullet in the back of his skull."  
  
Mycroft makes an unhappy sound. "Quite."  
  
John squeezes his hand around his glass, glaring at it. "If he's played me on this..."  
  
"Welcome to the world of Sherlock Holmes, Doctor. Cheers." He takes a sip of his drink.  
  
It's only a matter of a few minutes before the doorbell rings, and Mycroft gets up to let Sherlock in.  
  
"You sodding bastard!" John is already standing, his fists clenched at his sides, when Sherlock enters. "Are you all right?"  
  
Sherlock is still wearing his coat and unwinding the scarf from around his neck. "Never better," he says. "Although these will have to be cleaned. Possible spattering." He turns to Mycroft and says testily, "I assume you have people for that," as he shrugs off his coat. "I'll want it back by tomorrow, of course."  
  
"Best give me the lot," Mycroft agrees. "Although to hear John here tell it, you might express your gratitude at his saving your life." The last few words have a definite edge to them.  
  
Sherlock glances in John's direction without really fixing him. "Yes, thank you. Nice work. Although you did take your time about it."  
  
"You- " John looks down and tries to regain control of himself. "Two shots, Sherlock. It took me two shots. I might have killed someone else with the first-"  
  
"I'm sure no one will ever connect-"  
  
"That's not the bloody point! You were supposed to be with me. You were my spotter, we had a plan, but you apparently-" He takes a calming breath. "Were you caught? Was there someone at the security desk?"  
  
Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I took care of the cameras earlier. They were on, but nothing was recording. 'Technical malfunction'."  
  
"So you - What, you thought, 'Nice evening for a stroll, think I'll just leave John to it, he doesn't need me to hold his hand while he _bloody well assassinates someone_ for me, no, I'll just go have a chat with the nice criminals and goad them into blowing my brains out, and for good measure why don't I put my head right in the fucking middle of the rifle scope?'"  
  
"I was down on the floor, there was no way you could have hit me!" Sherlock protests.  
  
"You can't possibly have known that! My aim was way off on the first shot, bullets ricochet!"  
  
"I needed to clear the room! There were too many people in there. He had nine men called in for the meeting. Well, eight and a woman. You'd hardly have been able to identify your target, much less line up the shot. I knew you'd have qualms about shooting into a crowd. I notice no one's mentioned the fact that he was neatly framed in the window, standing nice and still for upwards of a minute. Even Mycroft could have picked him off with all the advantage I gained you."  
  
"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft says in a disappointed voice.  
  
"Don't 'oh Sherlock' me," Sherlock snaps at his brother. "I took every possible precaution so that it would be a clean hit."  
  
John stares at Sherlock. "Right," he says, very quietly. "Right. If that's all then. I'll be collecting my daughter." He turns to Mycroft. "Where is she?"  
  
"John," Mycroft says, trying to mediate.  
  
"You can't leave," Sherlock says in a low voice, directing his words somewhere near John's shoulder. "This will either send them all into hiding, or flush them all out. Someone's going to try and take advantage of the power vacuum. And what better way to consolidate than to take care of the man who toppled the Colonel. They may not make the connection with you right away, of course. Especially as I made certain that I was the one they saw." He raises his eyes to meet John's.  
  
John works his jaw, clenching his teeth several times. "What are we supposed to do?" he asks finally.  
  
"We'll take the children to Llanbroc."  
  
Mycroft inhales sharply.  
  
"Sorry, what's-?" John asks.  
  
"Mummy's estate," Mycroft explains. "Our mother," he adds, for John's benefit. "It's in Wales, quite isolated. Which will work both ways, of course. May be difficult to get backup in, but it will also be extremely difficult to approach without advance warning. It's not the worst idea," he says to Sherlock. "Although staying here might-"  
  
"We are not staying here," Sherlock says flatly.  
  
Mycroft has a sour expression as he nods. "Yes, well, I'll let them know you're on your way, shall I?"  
  
"Can we use-"  
  
"You can take the Bentley."  
  
"I thought the whole point of this was that we wouldn't have to go into hiding," John says with barely suppressed temper as Mycroft moves to his computer.  
  
"Just for a couple of days. Until I get a handle on what's going on."  
  
"I have a job, the kids have school, we can't just-"  
  
"Call in sick for yourself and your daughter," Sherlock says as if speaking to a very small child. "It's not difficult to figure out."  
  
"God, you're just- You're a piece, you know that?"  
  
"So I've been told," he returns coldly.

&&&&&&

  
  
Tristram wakes up when he feels himself being lifted from his bed. It's dark, and he has a brief moment of panic, but he smells the familiar scent of his father's cologne and hears his voice whispering that it's okay, so he puts his arms around his father's neck and allows himself to be carried like a small child, the blanket still wrapped around him. His eyes are sticky with sleep, so he doesn't open them, but he hears Emily's questioning voice and her father answering her, low and steady, beside them. Then they are moving, stopping, and he hears the lift door slide open, a couple more steps, then the gentle jolt as they start to descend. Several seconds later, cool air hits Tristram's bare feet, and the sounds around him become more hollow: they are in Uncle Mycroft's underground garage.  
  
He opens his eyes now. His father is carrying him, and over his father's shoulder, he can see Emily in her father's arms. Doctor Watson's face is pinched and hard, and Tristram ducks his face down against his father's shoulder so he doesn't have to see him.  
  
They bypass Uncle Mycroft's car and get into another one that's always parked there when Tristram comes, but that he's never seen anyone use. It's also black, but smaller and lower to the ground.  
  
"You're going to have to get yourself in," his father says as he bends down to set Tristram gently onto the ground. He opens the door, and Tristram climbs onto the back seat, dragging along the blanket that's still wrapped around him. A moment later, Emily joins him, also with a blanket. She looks small and pale, and she's peering out at her father, who's standing next to the car, saying something to Tristram's father. Tristram looks away, because they don't look happy.  
  
"Where are we going?" Emily asks them, her voice tight with anxiety. "Aren't you coming with us?"  
  
Doctor Watson leans down, bracing one arm against the top of the door frame. "We're all going together, love," he says gently, then turns his head to speak over his shoulder in a much colder tone, "Just as soon as Sherlock here admits he's not actually in possession of a driving license."  
  
"I was merely offering, seeing as you're coming off a potentially _upsetting_ -"  
  
"Yes, all right, Sherlock," Doctor Watson snaps, "I think I can handle piloting a car. I find driving relaxing, believe it or not."  
  
"As you wish. It will leave me free to make some enquiries."  
  
Tristram's father walks around to the other side and flops down onto the front passenger seat. Doctor Watson gets in, makes sure that Tristram and Emily are buckled in with the blankets over them, and tells them to make themselves as comfortable as they can and try to sleep. He then takes a couple of minutes adjusting the driver's seat and headrest and the mirrors.  
  
"Don't need a booster seat, do you?" Tristram hears his father snipe.  
  
"Shut up," Doctor Watson mutters. "At least my knees aren't jammed up against the dash." Then he turns on the engine, and they are off.  
  
Tristram can see Emily in intermittent flashes from street lamps as they drive through the city. There's still quite a bit of traffic, so it can't be very, very late (or very, very early). She looks wide awake now, and scared. Tristram is more curious than frightened.  
  
"Daddy?" she says in a thin, tremulous voice. It's too quiet to make it all the way to the front seat. She looks like she's considering being sick, her face pinched and pale.  
  
Tristram sits forward and touches his father on the shoulder. He has his mobile out and is texting something. "Father?"  
  
"Not now, Tristram," he says curtly. "Go to sleep."  
  
Tristram takes his hand away. "Doctor Watson?" he tries.  
  
Emily's father presses his lips together and gives Tristram's father a disparaging look, then looks back at the road and says, "What is it, Tris?" He sounds a little irritated, too, but at least he's willing to respond.  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
"Your grandmother's, apparently." He sounds like he's not entirely happy about it.  
  
Tristram smiles in relief and sits back. He likes it at Grandmother's. They usually only go once a year, in the summer, when the sea is not absolutely freezing and there are wild strawberries all over.  
  
"It's okay," he says to Emily. "We're going to see my grandmother. You'll like it. She has a huge house and outbuildings and gardens. And a pond." Although it's too late for strawberries, and the water will be too cold for bathing.  
  
"What about school?" Emily asks, apparently feeling brave enough to talk to her father again directly.  
  
"We'll just make a long weekend of it," her father says. Tristram can tell he's trying to make it sound jolly, but his voice is strained. "Your teacher won't mind if you miss one day of school."  
  
Emily settles back, but her hand sneaks out from under her blanket and seeks out Tristram's. He squeezes it and smiles at her, then looks out the window and watches the buzz of the city give way to the monotony of the motorway. After a while, he closes his eyes, still holding Emily's hand.

&&&&&&

  
  
"I think they're asleep," John says, stretching up to check the back seat in the rear view mirror.  
  
Sherlock has stopped texting, but holds his mobile loosely in one hand. He stares absently out the side window.  
  
"We can do the entire trip in silence if you want," John says after a while. "Only four hours to go."  
  
Sherlock doesn't respond.  
  
After a couple of minutes, John turns on the radio, not too loud, and flips through the stations until he finds one playing a trite, modern hit.  
  
Sherlock's hand tightens around his mobile, but he still doesn't say anything or look at John. When the song ends and a new one starts, though, he reaches out and stabs the off button.  
  
"I was listening to that," John protests.  
  
"And now you're not." Sherlock raises his mobile to his face, scowling, and scrolls around.  
  
"I need something to keep me awake for the next four hours."  
  
"I thought you enjoyed driving."  
  
"Doesn't mean it won't put me to sleep."  
  
"I did offer to drive."  
  
"No," John says firmly. "I think we've broken enough laws tonight."  
  
Sherlock snorts. "Is that what this is about?"  
  
"What what is about?"  
  
"You know what I mean: this." Sherlock waves his hand toward John. "This whole... righteous indignation."  
  
"No. Nope." John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock, you do not get to do this."  
  
"Now we're going to hear it," Sherlock says darkly and flops his mobile down into his lap again.  
  
"You do not get to act like I'm the unreasonable one. You're the one who went off on your own and risked your _life_ -"  
  
"To ensure the best possible outcome for _you_. To make it easier for _you_!"  
  
"See, there it is again! As if this whole operation were a favour done for my benefit."  
  
"Please tell me how exactly you did not benefit from striking a crippling blow to the organisation that killed your wife and sister-in-law."  
  
"So, what, if I hadn't been involved, you would have left them alone?"  
  
"I certainly don't have the skills to do what you did," Sherlock says.  
  
John's hands squeeze and wring the steering wheel. "Right," he says uncomfortably. "But we discussed- I mean, you said that what happened with Tristram was just a warning. That next time it would be a real bomb, if you didn't back off with the investigation."  
  
"And your daughter as well. If you want to pursue what happened to your wife-"  
  
"I can't let it rest. I know that Claire started it, but she didn't pull the trigger. Whoever did-"  
  
"With Moran out of the way, whoever it was will have that much less protection. Someone's bound to get scared and hopefully be willing to strike a deal."  
  
"Best case. And the worst case is that we've slipped their lead and they'll come after us with everything they've got."  
  
"Which is why we're being safe tonight."  
  
John laughs humourlessly. "Now you think about being safe."  
  
"Now I have Tristram and your daughter to worry about."  
  
" _We_ , Sherlock," John corrects him. " _We_ have them."  
  
Sherlock looks at John's profile for a while before nodding his head and agreeing. "Yes."  
  
They are both silent for a while, then, watching the traffic, until Sherlock asks quietly, "Are you all right?"  
  
John takes a moment to answer. "I'm working on it," he says finally, keeping his eyes looking straight ahead at the road.  
  
Sherlock brushes his knuckles against the back of John's hand on the steering wheel, then leans back against the door on his side and concentrates on his mobile.  
  
John looks over at him, frowning slightly. He checks over his shoulder, but both children are lying motionless under their blankets. "And you?" he asks in a low voice. "I mean, you did see a man killed right in front of you."  
  
Sherlock shifts in his seat. "Shot, anyway."  
  
John sits up a bit straighter. "What does that mean?"  
  
"The bullet hit him in the neck. There was a lot of blood," Sherlock mutters.  
  
John hits the steering wheel hard with one hand. "Jesus, you mean you didn't wait, you didn't make sure-"  
  
"There were at least nine armed gangsters in the next room," Sherlock hisses. "The window shattering was rather loud, I couldn't exactly hang around to -"  
  
John bangs his head back against the headrest. "Jesus Christ, _Jesus_!"  
  
"They'll think I did it," Sherlock tries to argue. "There's no way to tie it to you."  
  
"That's not the point! If he lives, he's got twice as much reason to come after us now, with the full strength of the organisation behind him!"  
  
"I had deduced that," Sherlock snarks.  
  
"And thank you very much for sharing that bit of vital information with the rest of us. Or did you tell Mycroft and it's only me you've left in the dark?"  
  
"I've just told you!"  
  
"Yes, after I happened to ask the right questions."  
  
"I didn't tell Mycroft anything more than what you heard," Sherlock says peevishly.  
  
"Christ, Sherlock, you can't-" John tries to look at Sherlock while keeping one eye on the road. "Let's get something straight right now. If this is going to work, and I mean any- and everything you think I mean, you cannot leave me out of the loop. I have to be able to trust you."  
  
"It's up to you to decide whether you want to trust me or not. I can't be expected to share my every thought and move with you. You're as bad as Mycroft. Or no, I know: why don't you get me one of those mobiles like you did for the children. Then you can keep tabs on me every second of every day."  
  
"That is not what I'm saying, and you bloody well know it. I'm talking about a major breach here."  
  
"If I'd told you what I was doing, you would never have agreed to it!"  
  
"That's for damn sure."  
  
"And if I'd stayed with you, you would have refused to shoot as soon as you saw the situation. The plan, such as you knew it, was in actual fact unworkable. My way was the only way it could work."  
  
"You're- You're so damn full of yourself, you know that?"  
  
"It's not arrogance, it's intelligence. If you'd thought it through, you would have seen the same issues I did."  
  
"Oh, so now I'm stupid, is that it?"  
  
"Your words."  
  
"No, see, I trusted you, Sherlock. Obviously my first mistake. Or maybe the last in a tragic series. I trusted that _you'd_ thought things through, because that's your job. My job was to take out the linchpin. That's how things work in a team. Everyone has their part to play, and you trust that everyone's doing it the way they're supposed to. Because if one person suddenly goes off on their own tangent, that endangers everyone."  
  
"You're talking about your Army experience."  
  
"I'm talking about what you did tonight, which was unacceptable."  
  
"And yet you went along with it."  
  
"I shot a man to save your life! That had nothing to do with any plans any more. That wasn't about a preemptive strike, or revenge for Mary. It was to protect you, nothing else."  
  
Sherlock is silent as the miles tick by beneath them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the name Llanbroc to sound pseudo-Welsh. I'm sorry if it means something unfortunate. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

  
When Tristram wakes up, he has a moment of disorientation before he recognises the green tasseled curtains over the windows, dimming the already bleary daylight even further. He can hear rain pattering against the panes. A vague memory surfaces of being carried in, more than half asleep, and being deposited in the four-poster bed by his father. He checks his watch - seven-fifteen - and sits up, expecting to see Emily, but the room - his room, the one he always stays in at Grandmother's - is otherwise empty. He has an uneasy feeling, not recalling whether Emily was brought in too; but Doctor Watson was in the car with them, and he would have made certain she was safe.  
  
Tristram swings his legs out of bed, and is surprised and pleased to see his school bag on the chest of drawers. When he opens it, he finds all of his schoolbooks - including the Harry Potter book from the library - along with his extra clothes and toothbrush from Uncle Mycroft's, and the school uniform he wore the day before. He wonders who thought to bring everything along; surely not his father.  
  
He gets dressed in the extra set of clothes, then steps quietly out into the hall. The house is silent, as if everyone else is still sleeping. Grandmother at least is no lie-a-bed, though, so she's probably downstairs or out in the gardens or in her studio. He wonders where Emily is, if not in Tristram's room.  
  
There are only four bedrooms on this floor of this wing: Grandmother's suite (bedroom, sitting room, and bath); Father's and Uncle Mycroft's old rooms (which probably originally comprised another suite, as they share a common bath); and the guest room that he always uses when he stays. Father's room is most likely reserved for him, although it's doubtful he's actually in it. Therefore, it would make sense if Doctor Watson and Emily were in Uncle Mycroft's old room. Or maybe Grandmother had a room in the other wing of the house opened and made up for one or the other of them.  
  
Tristram hesitates outside the door to Uncle Mycroft's room, torn between not wanting to disturb Doctor Watson if he's in there, asleep, and wanting to find Emily. If it were him, he figures, waking up in the house of his friend's grandmother, he'd want his friend to come and get him when they woke up, so that he wouldn't have to wander out into the house alone.  
  
He pushes the handle down very slowly and opens the door just a crack; the light sound of snoring lets him know that someone, at least, is using the room, and he'd be very surprised if it were Emily making that sound. He pushes the door open a bit further, and sure enough, there is Doctor Watson, lying on his back on the big double bed, fully clothed, with his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open. And standing by the window, dressed in different clothes from yesterday, is Emily.  
  
Her face lights up when she sees him, but she puts her finger against her lips to signal that Tristram should be quiet before she tiptoes over and slips out into the hall with him.  
  
"I got my mobile," she tells him happily, patting the pocket of her jeans. "My dad packed everything and brought it along." She seems very relieved. "Yours too?"  
  
Tristram didn't even think to check for his phone. "Yeah, my bag's here, but I didn't see my mobile. Wait, I'll just go get it."  
  
"Is this your grandmother's house?" Emily asks as she follows him across the hall.  
  
Tristram nods. "We come here every summer."  
  
Emily leans over the balustrade to look at the floors above and below. "It's like a hotel!"  
  
Tristram doesn't know what to say to that. It's just Grandmother's house, although admittedly there are rather a lot of rooms, many of them unused, as far as he knows. "We can look around, if you want. Or do you want to go have breakfast?"  
  
He goes into his room and rummages around in his school bag. He finally finds his mobile in one of the side pockets.  
  
Emily hesitates in the doorway, glancing back at the room where her father is sleeping. "I don't want my dad to wake up and not know where I am."  
  
"You could leave him a note," Tristram suggests. He puts the phone into his pocket. The weight there is comforting.  
  
"Okay," Emily agrees. "Do you have a piece of paper?"  
  
Tristram tears a sheet out of one of his notebooks and gives her a pen. She writes a quick note and dashes back across the hall to leave it next to her father. He is still dead to the world.  
  
"Does he always snore like that?" Tristram asks, amused.  
  
Emily smiles. "Yeah. Lucky I don't always have to share a room with him."  
  
"You don't have to here, either. I mean, there are lots more rooms. I can ask my grandmother to open up one of the other ones for you. Or you could sleep in my room."  
  
"No, it's okay," Emily says quickly, looking away. "I don't mind. Come on, show me the house."  
  
There are plenty of things to interest two inquisitive children in the old estate house, where Grandmother and her parents – and possibly even further back - have tended to dump unwanted reminders of bygone eras in the various unused rooms rather than get rid of them.  
  
By the time they make it down to the ground floor - having in mind to return later to a particularly jumbled lumber room up on the third floor - they are covered in dust and flushed with the exertion of discovery. But their stomachs have finally got the better of them, and Tristram leads Emily towards the dining room, where he hopes to find some breakfast.  
  
On the way, they pass by the green parlour (as Tristram's grandmother calls it), where they see Tristram's father stretched out on a stiff, horsehair sofa with a carved wooden frame, focused on his mobile.  
  
"Good morning," Tristram says politely, making a detour into the room with Emily trailing after him.  
  
"Morning," his father murmurs, his fingers tapping over the screen of his phone.  
  
"Is my dad up yet?" Emily asks.  
  
Father makes a negative sound. "I haven't seen him."  
  
"Do you think it's all right if we have breakfast without him?" Tristram asks. It would probably be correct to wait, as Doctor Watson is a guest, but on the other hand it is after nine by now and they don't usually stand on form.  
  
Tristram's father looks up, apparently only just now registering that Emily is there too. He looks irritated at the interruption. "I'm sure it doesn't matter," he says curtly. "Cook's probably put something out in the dining room." He returns to his mobile, and Tristram knows that means the end of the discussion.  
  
"Come on," Tristram says to Emily and goes back out.  
  
"Isn't he coming too?" she asks.  
  
"He doesn't eat that much when he's working," Tristram says.  
  
There are two dining rooms. Tristram assumes his father meant the family dining room, as opposed to the formal one. Although Emily and her father are guests, this doesn't seem to be an official visit. Grandmother hasn't even received them yet. However, when they get to the family dining room, they find the table unset and the sideboard empty, so Tristram goes through into the bigger room with the huge chandelier. But there is nothing set out there either.  
  
He's not sure what to make of that, because when they come in the summer, there is always toast and milk and juice and cereal out, even when he's the only one eating. When Grandmother eats with him, there's usually bacon or ham and oatmeal, too. Maybe Grandmother only has a cook to help when they come, and as this visit is on such short notice, she wasn't able to organise one.  
  
Tristram knows where the kitchen is, though, so they go down below stairs, where the cool damp is a welcome respite on hot August days. Now, in November, it's a contest as to whether it's colder outside or inside, and the dim, dank cellar is not so much refreshing as unwelcoming. The kitchen is old; Tristram can't judge the age exactly, but the appliances are thicker and squatter than the sleek, trim ones he's seen in advertisements in magazines, or at Emily's aunts' house. The colours too - drab green and dirty ivory - remind him of the pictures in the old photo albums Grandmother gets out for him sometimes, from when she was little.  
  
Still, the fridge works - even though it groans and shudders a bit - and they discover butter and milk and cranberry juice inside. There are a couple of half-hard rolls in the bread box, and Emily finds the dishes and silverware by opening all the cabinets and drawers she can reach.  
  
"This is the first time I've missed school when I wasn't sick," Emily confides in him, once they've settled down to eat.  
  
"Me too, I think," Tristram says.  
  
"I hope we don't get in trouble," Emily says.  
  
"We're with our fathers," Tristram points out. "They can give us permission not to go to school."  
  
"No they can't," Emily says. "It's the law that children have to go to school."  
  
Tristram considers this. It may be true; he's never actually heard it stated one way or the other. But his family has never had an absolute relationship with the law. "It's okay to do things that are against the rules, if you have a good reason," he tells her with the absolute confidence of a child who has seen authority figures do just that, with few or no repercussions.  
  
Emily chews a while before answering. It could be that she is taking time to think of an answer, or that it's hard to get her teeth through the stiff bread. "But we're not here _for_ anything," she finally says.  
  
"We must be," Tristram says. His father never does anything without a reason, and 'just for fun' isn't one of them.  
  
"What?" Emily asks.  
  
Tristram considers the evidence. His father and Doctor Watson were working on a case last night, while Tristram and Emily were stashed at Uncle Mycroft's. His father's vague answer that he and Emily's father would 'feel better' with them there, rather than at their own respective houses with Mrs Hudson and Emily's aunts, suggests to Tristram that there was an issue of safety involved. Maybe - He stops himself from theorising further, because there is more evidence to consider.  
  
The next point is that their fathers took them from Uncle Mycroft's house in the middle of the night and drove straight across the country without stopping, causing them to miss a full day of school, unexcused. (Or excused? Tristram has to admit it's possible his father arranged for him to be absent from school in advance; Father's made enough plans this week involving Tristram without letting him know until the last moment. But usually, when a student knows that they will not be in school - such as for a doctor's appointment or a funeral - the teacher gives them the assignments for the days they will miss before they go. Mrs Norris didn't mention anything yesterday. So, the logical conclusion is that his absence today is unexcused.)  
  
The next piece of evidence is that his father is glued to his mobile and he isn't eating.  
  
"Hello? Earth to Tris." Emily's voice interrupts his train of thought. She giggles. "You know, you looked just like your dad just now. You've got this line right here-" She reaches over and touches his forehead, between his eyebrows. "All you need is a phone."  
  
Tristram knows she doesn't mean the phone in his pocket. She means one like his father has, where he can send text messages and look up facts on the internet. However, he doesn't see how that would be helpful in this case. He has all the evidence he needs without it. Anyway, his father spends a great deal of time thinking without his phone, too, although Emily couldn't know this.  
  
"So, why do you think we're here?" she asks him again.  
  
"I think... I think it has something to do with the case they were working on," he says slowly.  
  
"You think they need to investigate something here?" She sounds eager, probably hoping to see a frozen foot or a chemical experiment in the kitchen.  
  
"Maybe. But mostly, I think they're trying to keep us safe." He looks down into his milk. Saying it out loud makes it more real. He doesn't want to scare either of them, but all the facts at his disposal point toward that conclusion.  
  
Emily's hopeful look fades to one of apprehension. "The bogeyman?" she says in a half whisper.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
They finish their breakfast in silence - neither one of them eats much more - and are in the middle of putting things away when a woman in red trousers and a bright jumper with a zig-zag pattern bustles in with several plastic bags of groceries. Tristram recognises her as the same household help who was here when they visited the previous summer. Mrs Bowen, her name was. She's about ten years younger than Mrs Hudson and has a few extra pounds around her middle.  
  
"Oh, bless me," she exclaims when she sees Tristram and Emily. "Here you are already, and me just back from the shops. Your granny only told me this morning you'd be here." She slings the bags onto the counter.  
  
"Hello, Mrs Bowen," Tristram says politely. "This is my friend Emily. Her father's here, too." He isn't sure if she knows about Doctor Watson, and he doesn't want her to be surprised by having an extra person to cook for.  
  
Mrs Bowen beams at Emily. "It's lovely to have you, dear. Just staying the weekend, then?" she asks as she sets about unpacking the bags.  
  
"I think so," Tristram says. That's the impression he has, anyway. Doctor Watson said something about making a 'long weekend' of it in the car last night. "You'd better ask my father to be sure."  
  
Mrs Bowen snorts. "A likely story. I'm as like to get a straight answer out of him as to win the National. Well, we should have enough here for the weekend, anyway, and I'll get more in on Monday if needs be. Have the two of you had breakfast?" She takes out a loaf of sliced bread from one of the bags and opens the bread box. "Oh, don't tell me you ate those day-olds!" She tuts. "There go the dumplings. Never mind. What your friend must think of our hospitality." She shakes her head and puts one fist on her hip, but she's smiling. "Shall I fix you some toast and scrambled eggs, then? Or some cereal?" She pulls out a box of a sweetened breakfast cereal from a grocery bag and shakes it temptingly. "My grandson Davey eats this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."  
  
Tristram looks at Emily. He's not really hungry any more, but if she wants something, he'll sit with her. She shakes her head back at him, though, so he says, "No, thank you. I'm sorry we didn't wait until you were back."  
  
"Not to worry, you weren't to know," Mrs Bowen says. "It's nice to see you know how to take care of yourselves. I know some as could take a page out of your book. Have your da's also eaten, then, or shall I send something up for them?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure Doctor Watson hasn't had anything yet," Tristram says, avoiding the question of whether his father will eat. "But he was still asleep when we came down. He might sleep a long time," he adds.  
  
"I'll just start on lunch then, shall I, and you tell him he can ring down if he wants something before that."  
  
Tristram thanks her, and he and Emily go back upstairs.  
  
"Your grandmother has servants?" Emily asks, slightly agog.  
  
"Mrs Bowen's not a servant," Tristram says with a frown. "She just helps out. Like Mrs Hudson."  
  
"Where is your grandmother, anyway?" Emily asks. "Is she also still sleeping?"  
  
"I doubt it. She usually gets up pretty early. I'm sure we'll see her later. Come on, I want to show you something."  
  


&&&&&&

  
"Morning." John steps into the green parlour. His face is pale and puffy and his hair is sticking up at odd angles.  
  
Sherlock sits up and eyes him warily. "Good morning." He fiddles desultorily with his mobile. "Feeling better?"  
  
John sits down in an armchair next to the sofa. "More rested, anyway." He rests his elbows on his knees, presses his hands together and catches Sherlock's eye, exhaling before he begins speaking. "I'm still not happy with what happened."  
  
"I know," Sherlock says. He seems unhappy about it too. "I didn't see any other way."  
  
"You can't trick me like that, Sherlock."  
  
"No. You're right. I- As I said, I'm not used to working with someone." He is quiet for a moment, pressing his hands together in front of his mouth with the phone sandwiched between. Finally, he asks, "What would you have done, if I'd pointed out the weaknesses in the plan as it stood?"  
  
John considers, looking down at his clasped hands. "I don't know. Advised waiting, probably. There wasn't any immediate threat."  
  
Sherlock nods, as if that's what he expected to hear.  
  
"Anything?" John gestures at Sherlock's mobile.  
  
"No."  
  
"Is that good or bad?"  
  
"I can't tell yet," Sherlock says, sitting back. "Either way, his people are trying to cover it up so that we can't anticipate whatever it is they're planning."  
  
"That doesn't sound good."  
  
"No," Sherlock agrees.  
  
"Any countermeasures at the moment?"  
  
"Mycroft's sent a team up. He'll let us know when they're here. I don't want to have them in the house-"  
  
"No, I agree," John says quickly. "But we'll need to know them by sight, at least. If only so we can tell them apart from Moran's gang, assuming they're also on their way."  
  
"The fact that our mother is even still alive isn't exactly common knowledge. And this estate has no connection to either myself or Mycroft."  
  
"All it would take is someone getting access to the birth and death certificates, and the deeds of property."  
  
Sherlock gives him a look. "You can't really believe that Mycroft would be so sloppy as to let documents relating to any member of our family languish in a public archive."  
  
John grins. "How silly of me."  
  
Sherlock's mouth quirks up as well. "Quite."  
  
"Still, it's a possibility. That Moran's people would show up here."  
  
"Of course. Hence Mycroft's team."  
  
"God, I really don't like this."  
  
"Do you imagine I do? Allowing Mycroft in on this is going to make his head swell up six more sizes."  
  
"That's not what I mean," John says pointedly.  
  
"I'd much rather simply arm you-"  
  
"No, Sherlock, this operation is already bigger than one man can handle, regardless of his physical condition, or how well-trained he is, and I'm not exactly the best specimen on either count."  
  
Sherlock frowns. "You're in perfectly good condition. And there are two of us."  
  
"How well do you know your way around a rifle?" John asks dryly.  
  
"You could teach me."  
  
John laughs. "Christ, yes, that's the plan. You are never getting within ten yards of a firearm, if I have anything to say about it."  
  
Sherlock's face looks like a battleground between a scowl and a grin.  
  
John reaches over and slaps a hand down on Sherlock's knee. "Buck up. Bletchley Park wasn't exactly useless either."  
  
"Is that the name of some rock band?"  
  
John laughs again. "You're kidding, right? You don't know Bletchley Park? Top intelligence factory during World War Two. The best minds in the country, working to break the German codes. Shortened the war by two years, apparently." He gives Sherlock's knee what is meant to be a final squeeze, but lets his hand linger, his eyes caught by Sherlock's.  
  
Sherlock slides his own hand carefully forward, until his fingertips are just resting on top of John's. "I'm very sorry you're caught up in this," he says soberly.  
  
"It's not- I mean, it's my choice. I wouldn't do it if I didn't think it was the right thing to do."  
  
"This-" Sherlock lets his gaze flicker down to their hands, then back up. "This complicates matters infinitely."  
  
John withdraws his hand. "Yeah," he says softly. "We should probably-"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, not entirely convincingly.  
  
They watch each other for several more seconds, both of them on the verge of saying something, until John breaks the tension by looking down and pulling something out of his back pocket. "Right," he says with forced lightness and brandishes the note from Emily. "Emily says she's with Tristram. Any idea where...?"  
  
Sherlock slides back on the sofa until he's out of John's reach anyway. "They stopped in here a short while ago, looking for breakfast. If they're not finished, you should be able to find them in the dining room."  
  
"Right. Thanks. I'll come back afterwards and we can make plans for the rest of the day."  
  
Sherlock watches him leave, before chucking his mobile into the corner of the sofa in frustration.  
  


&&&&&&

  
Back on the main floor, Tristram pulls Emily into a small room that's full of display cases and tall cabinets. "This is the curiosity room," he announces.  
  
Emily looks around, impressed. "It's a museum."  
  
"Sort of," Tristram says. "Look, these are all fossils that my grandmother's parents and grandparents collected." He points at a glass-fronted cabinet full of neatly labeled rocks with the imprints of leaves and shells and carapaces.  
  
"Cool," Emily says. "And what about these?" She moves to a wooden display box topped with glass, containing lots of small, ornate containers.  
  
"Those are snuff boxes."  
  
Emily wrinkles up her nose. "What's that?"  
  
Tristram explains as well as he remembers from having it explained to him on past visits, and they make their way around the room examining the various collections.  
  
They are in the middle of having a friendly argument over whether the jewelry made from human hair is gross or not, when they hear Doctor Watson say, "Here you are!"  
  
"Daddy!" Emily flies over to him and wraps herself around his middle.  
  
He hugs her back. "Hey there. Thanks for the note. That was very responsible of you." Then he smiles at Tristram over her head. "Good morning, Tris."  
  
"Good morning, Doctor Watson," he replies politely.  
  
"Did you two sleep well?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
"You snore," Emily says, but she's smiling.  
  
"Well, you kick," her father retorts good-naturedly.  
  
"'m sorry." Emily, suddenly contrite, buries her face in his stomach.  
  
"Hey, no, it's okay, Ems, I'm just teasing." Her father strokes her hair. "I like knowing you're next to me."  
  
"I won't kick you tonight, I promise."  
  
"I hope you do, or I'll have to snore extra loud."  
  
Emily smiles at that.  
  
"Hey, Tris, do you know where a fellow can find anything to eat around here? Your father said something about a dining room, but this place is like a maze."  
  
"Oh, Mrs Bowen said to ring down to her when you're ready to eat. She'll make you breakfast."  
  
"Maybe you could just show me where the kitchen is," Doctor Watson suggests. "I'm sure I can get myself something."  
  
So Tristram leads the way back downstairs while Doctor Watson follows with Emily clinging to him.  
  
Of course Mrs Bowen won't hear of Doctor Watson making his own food, and he doesn't want anything elaborate, so they settle on coffee and toast and are soon chatting like they've known each other for years.  
  
Tristram would like to go back upstairs, or outside; he's not interested in hearing about Mrs Bowen's grandson or the state of the local roads. But Emily is glued to her father's side and doesn't look like she's ready to separate herself from him any time soon, and Tristram doesn't want to leave without her. After all, she's here visiting him, sort of. So he sits on the far end of the kitchen bench and rests his chin on his fists and makes a game of guessing how many bites it will take Doctor Watson to finish each piece of toast (he's off by three on the first piece but only one on the second, and he's spot on for the third), and counting how many times he chews each bite (between ten and fourteen, although sometimes it's hard to tell when he takes a swallow of coffee at the same time).  
  
Finally, finally, Doctor Watson drinks up the last of his coffee, politely declines when Mrs Bowen tries to pour him a fresh cup, and says to Emily and Tristram, "What say we go and find out what our plans for the day are?"  
  
"Lunch at twelve," Mrs Bowen reminds them before the three of them go upstairs to find Tristram's father.  
  
He's not on the sofa in the green parlour anymore, but one of the French doors is propped open, and Tristram can smell cigarette smoke.  
  
"Sherlock?" Doctor Watson says as he crosses to the door.  
  
Tristram and Emily follow him, and there's Tristram's father, standing just outside, his back pressed against the wall to stay out of the rain. He has a cigarette between his fingers. He never smokes at their flat in London, but he often does here at Grandmother's. He takes one last long drag on the cigarette before flicking it over the side of the stone balustrade.  
  
"Still nothing," he mutters as he comes back inside.  
  
"I'd like to take the kids out," Doctor Watson says. "They can't stay cooped up inside all day."  
  
"They're perfectly welcome to go out onto the grounds. Tristram knows his way around," Tristram's father says. "I'd prefer it if you would stay here, in case anything comes in."  
  
"I think at least one of us should go with them." Doctor Watson leans toward Tristram's father as he speaks, and the way he raises his eyebrows says that there's another meaning behind his words.  
  
Tristram's father doesn't look entirely happy with the idea, but he must understand what Doctor Watson means, because he looks from him to Tristram and Emily and says, "Yes, all right. Just make sure your phone is on. Do you even have reception? Mine's been in and out all night."  
  
Doctor Watson snaps his mobile out of his pocket and flicks it open. "One bar, but maybe it'll be better outside."  
  
"I have mine, too," Tristram pipes up. He pats his pocket, remembering the admonishment never to take the phone out unless he needs to use it.  
  
"Me too," Emily chimes in.  
  
Tristram's father smiles at them. "Good. Make sure you stay close to John anyway."  
  
Tristram basks in the knowledge that he's pleased his father, even if it was Emily who remembered they should take their phones with them.  
  
"What do you say, Tris?" Doctor Watson asks. "Think you could show us around?"  
  
Tristram agrees, but when Emily and her father go back to their room to get their jackets, Tristram hangs back.  
  
"Father?"  
  
His father looks down at him and puts one hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" His grey eyes focus their energy on Tristram's, giving him courage to speak what is on his mind.  
  
"Are we in danger?"  
  
His father studies Tristram's face for a moment, as if trying to figure out how much Tristram already knows. "I don't know," he admits, finally. "We're as safe as we can be here, though. I don't want you to worry, but you should continue to be observant. I want you to come and tell me immediately if you notice anything that seems unusual in any way. Can I count on you to do that?"  
  
Tristram nods, even though he gets a twisty, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.  
  
"When I told you to stay close to John, I meant that. I know you usually have the run of the estate when we come here, but this time, I don't want you going out on your own, or with your grandmother, or with anyone other than myself or John."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Good." Tristram's father takes his hand off his shoulder, which means that Tristram should go now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

  
They borrow umbrellas from the stand in the front hall. The only shoes Tristram and Emily have are their school shoes, so they stick to the paths, rather than cutting across the lawn as Tristram normally would. Their feet are still wet within a matter of minutes.  
  
Tristram takes them through the garden first. There's a swing that Father strung up on a tree for him when he was very small. Doctor Watson looks a bit surprised when Tristram tells him that, and walks around inspecting the swing with great interest. In the summer, if he swings high enough, Tristram can kick the leaves with his feet. Now, the leaves are almost all gone, but he and Emily take turns standing on the seat of the swing (they don't want to sit and get their trousers wet) while Doctor Watson pushes them.  
  
There are other interesting parts to the garden, like the hollow bush that you can hide in, and the pond that gets black with tadpoles, but Tristram settles for simply pointing them out today. Maybe if the weather clears up later on, they can come back and play. He also tries to explain to Emily and Doctor Watson how to play rat-in-the-maze or circuit-breaker on the paths, which makes Emily look confused and Doctor Watson shake his head and smile and say, "Amazing." Tristram smiles too, even if he's not sure what's so special about a silly game.  
  
The next stop is the old stable. There have never been animals kept there in all of Tristram's memory, but when Grandmother was small, there were horses and sheep. It stands empty now, the windows opaque with dirt and the door almost falling off its hinges. Tristram has never been too keen on playing in here, truth be told, but Emily insists on at least seeing the inside.  
  
Doctor Watson makes them wait outside while he goes in first, presumably to make sure nothing's caved in – or about to - then gives them the all-clear to join him. It's dim, the far corners and the upper reaches blanked out by shadow. It also still smells vaguely of animal. Doctor Watson says that's mice, which sends Emily and Tristram off on a quest to find them, shuffling through the debris littering the floor. They are both disappointed not to find anything, but Doctor Watson laughs and says it's no wonder.  
  
The only place left after that is Grandmother's studio. It used to be the carriage house, back when Grandmother's parents or grandparents had an honest to goodness horse-drawn carriage and a driver, but at some point, Grandmother took it over. She knocked down most of the walls on the top floor and installed a skylight, so she could paint and sculpt and do whatever else strikes her fancy. The bottom floor is where she stores her supplies and finished pieces, and 'in progress' pieces that she got stuck on or lost interest in but didn't hate enough to destroy.  
  
The door is unlocked, which means that she's here. They prop their dripping umbrellas outside the door, and Doctor Watson calls out, "Hello?" when they go in. It smells like paint and damp clay and chemicals. Through one open door, they can see lumpy shapes piled up and covered with tarpaulins, and shelves filled with glazed pottery, mostly blues and purples. It is very quiet.  
  
Tristram leads the way up the stairs and knocks on the open door at the top. "Grandmother? It's Tristram."  
  
Grandmother is sitting on the floor in front of a canvas that takes up nearly half of the wall. It's covered in swaths and slashes of pink and yellow and white, which are cheerful, happy colours, but looking at it, Tristram feels like he's peeked at one of the crime scene photos in his father's files.  
  
"Hello," Doctor Watson says with a friendly wave. "I'm John Watson, we're here with Sherlock."  
  
She turns halfway around to smile at them and gestures for them to come closer. "Come and tell me what you think," she says.  
  
Tristram walks over to her, with Doctor Watson and Emily following. Tristram stops just behind her, and she reaches up to grab his hand. He can feel the way the skin slides loosely over her bones, different from his father's hard, stiff fingers or Doctor Watson's solid, warm fist. He considers starting a new notebook with observations on hands.  
  
"It's nice," he says, not looking at the picture.  
  
"And what do you think?" she says, looking up at Doctor Watson.  
  
He is standing there with his hands behind his back, staring at the picture with a slight frown. "It's... a bit disturbing, actually," he finally admits. "Couldn't tell you why, though."  
  
Grandmother laughs. "Help me up, Tristram." She pulls on his hand as she struggles to get her legs underneath her.  
  
Doctor Watson leans over and steadies her by the elbow until she's standing upright. She's just about the same height as him, wearing dark, narrow trousers and an open, paint-speckled jacket over a yellow blouse.  
  
"Thank you," she says, and smooths one hand over her still dark hair, which is pulled back into a neat knot at the back of her head. "You must be my son's associate."  
  
"Nice to meet you," he says, shaking her hand. "This is my daughter, Emily." He puts his other hand on Emily's head.  
  
"Jeanne," she says in return. Tristram feels a yearning, jealous twist, as he always does when she introduces herself, smooth and natural, as if that were really her name. Her real name, he knows, is Edith. It's not ridiculous, or even unusual, not like Tristram, and he's not quite sure why she doesn't use it. But the point is, she doesn't; she calls herself Jeanne, as if she'd been born to it, and Tristram wishes he knew how she does it. He tried out new names for himself when they were staying here one summer, but no one took him seriously, and it's difficult to entrench a new name if you're the only one calling yourself by it. At least Doctor Watson and Emily call him 'Tris', which he was startled by at first, but it's starting to grow on him. It almost sounds normal, like Chris or Trish.  
  
"It's very kind of you to let us visit on such short notice," Doctor Watson is saying now.  
  
"I've learned not to ask too many questions," Grandmother says, "although one does get curious..." She doesn't even spare a glance for Emily, but she looks Doctor Watson over, as if trying to deduce something about him, the way Father does. Her eyes move much too quickly, in Tristram's opinion, to take in anything of note. She turns back to her painting. "I've always hated pink. I thought it was about time I tried to figure out why. Red doesn't pose a problem. It's obvious: blood and danger. Pink, though; disguised as innocence. It isn't innocent at all, is it? What do you do, Mr Watson?"  
  
"Doctor, actually. But call me John."  
  
"A medical man?" At his nod, she smiles, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "And military too, I see. Yes, I can see why he would be interested in you. You understand what I mean, then, about pink. It's the colour of scars, mucous membranes, and orifices. I don't know why some people want to drape their little girls in it. It's obscene, if you think about it."  
  
Doctor Watson pulls Emily closer against his side. She isn't wearing any pink, Tristram is relieved to see. "Tris was just giving us a tour of the grounds," Doctor Watson says. "We didn't mean to disturb you."  
  
"Yes, you did," Grandmother says with an amused tilt to her mouth. "You were curious. Of course. We would have met at lunch anyway. Speaking of which ... It's probably time to head back, wouldn't you say?"  
  
The four of them go back together, Emily and Tristram running ahead a little way while Doctor Watson walks with Grandmother at her slower pace.  
  
Emily is being uncharacteristically quiet. In fact, she hasn't said anything since they went into Grandmother's studio. Tristram tries to think of what might be wrong, but comes up with too many possibilities: the rain, Grandmother's pink comments, their conversation at breakfast, or maybe she's coming down with something... Further observation would likely tell him more, but sometimes the direct approach is best.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
Emily shrugs and kicks at a pebble on the path. It skips off into the bushes. "Fine."  
  
Tristram isn't sure what to do with that. Clearly, she isn't fine. However, if his father had given him that answer, he would leave it. 'Fine' in that case would mean 'I am not going to give you any further information, and pressing the issue will only result in irritation, possibly anger.' Not that he has ever asked his father whether he was all right. For one thing, he can tell without asking, and for another, when his father isn't all right (injured, bored, frustrated), there is nothing that Tristram can do for him anyway. Asking about it would only focus attention on the unpleasant state of affairs and distract his father from fixing things using his own methods. Likewise, his father is not inclined to ask Tristram about his physical or mental condition: again, the answer is almost always obvious, and beyond that, Tristram knows that he is expected to ask for any assistance he might require.  
  
But he's pretty sure that Doctor Watson wouldn't let it go, and Tristram postulates that Emily will probably react better to Watsonian behaviour than Holmesian in this case. He dredges his memory for a parallel situation to work from. He recalls that Emily has started going to see that lady because of what happened to them on Friday Afternoon. As Tristram understands it, the lady is supposed to help her forget about it. Emily said that all she did was play with Geomag and talk to her. He doesn't have any games or toys to hand, so he tries the other option.  
  
He checks over his shoulder to make sure that Grandmother and Doctor Watson aren't listening, but they are involved in their own conversation. Still, he moves a little closer to Emily and keeps his voice low. "Do you want to... I don't know, talk about it?" he asks tentatively. He more than half hopes she'll say no because he has no idea how to 'talk about' topics that cause emotional discomfort.  
  
Emily shakes her head and kicks another stone, although with less force: it only bounces half-heartedly a few steps away.  
  
Tristram is relieved, but also at a loss. He does want to make Emily feel better, but he's run out of tricks. When they reach the stone, he kicks it so that it lands a short distance ahead of them on the path. Maybe if he engages her in a game, she'll stop thinking about whatever's bothering her. A few steps later, Emily kicks it in turn again and says, "When do you think we can go home?"  
  
Ah. Now he's getting closer. The question is, does she actually want to go home, or does she want to leave Grandmother's? He supposes it doesn't much matter; they haven't any choice in the matter. They are at the mercy of their fathers' wills. He answers as truthfully as he can: "Whenever my father decides it's safe enough."  
  
Emily looks over her shoulder now, too; Tristram isn't sure whether it's to make sure that the adults can't hear them, or because she feels safer knowing exactly where her father is.  
  
She turns back to Tristram with wide eyes and whispers, "Is he doing something? I mean, is he trying to catch the bogeyman?"  
  
Tristram nods. "I think so." He has no idea, actually. But he wants to reassure Emily.  
  
She still waits for Doctor Watson and Grandmother to catch up to them, grabs her father's hand, and doesn't say anything more all the way back to the house.  
  
When they get back, Doctor Watson sends Tristram and Emily upstairs to wash their hands and change into dry socks before lunch. The only other pair Tristram has is the pair he wore yesterday. He wouldn't normally wear the same clothes two days in a row - Father is quite particular about that - but 'needs must', as Mrs Hudson says. And he'll have to wear these same clothes for the rest of the weekend, if indeed they do end up staying that long. He carefully drapes his wet socks over the radiator in the bathroom and washes his hands. He also makes an attempt to comb his hair, which looks more of a mess than usual from the rain and the swing and rummaging around in the stable.  
  
When he's done, he goes across to Uncle Mycroft's room to see if Emily is ready to go downstairs. She is sitting with her legs hanging off the side of the bed and an unhappy expression on her face. Her father is standing next to her. It looks like they've been having a disagreement.  
  
"Your grandmother said lunch will be served in about twenty minutes," Doctor Watson says to Tristram. "Can the two of you find something to do until then? I'm going to find your father."  
  
"Can't we come with you?" Emily asks. It becomes clear that this is the disagreement.  
  
Doctor Watson looks down at her and explains patiently, "I'll be right downstairs, and you'll see me in twenty minutes when you come down for lunch." He smiles, although Tristram can tell it's strained. "Maybe you and Tris can play a game or look at a book until then."  
  
The only book Tristram has with him other than school books is the Harry Potter book, and somehow he doesn't think it would be a good idea to bring that up, as Doctor Watson has expressly forbidden Emily to read it. There are lots of books in the library, of course, but that's downstairs, and Tristram has enough experience with being sent away so that adults can discuss adult things to recognise Doctor Watson's intention that Tristram and Emily remain upstairs, out of earshot.  
  
There should still be a Go board and pieces in his room, though. He found it while rummaging through closets one summer, and appropriated it to amuse himself on those nights when he'd been put to bed before he was ready to go to sleep. His father found him making patterns with the pieces one evening - he'd had no idea of the actual rules - and taught him how to play. They even played a few games, although his father soon became bored with always winning, and told Tristram to practice on his own for a while and that they could play again when Tristram had figured out more strategies. He wasn't condescending about it, just honest. Tristram did practice, but he was never confident enough to ask his father to play again.  
  
At any rate, Tristram suggests the game to Emily now, and although she doesn't seem very enthusiastic, she agrees to go over to his room to at least take a look. Doctor Watson looks relieved and mouths 'thank you' at Tristram when Emily isn't looking, which pleases Tristram inordinately.  
  
Emily grasps the concept quickly - the basic rules aren't that complicated, after all - but she doesn't put much thought into her moves, and Tristram quickly dominates the board. Emily's still interested enough to want to play another round, but they have to put it off for another time, since it's time to go down for lunch by then.  
  
When they get to the dining room, Father is already sitting stiffly in his chair next to Grandmother, who is in her usual place at the head of the long table. Tristram is told to sit next to his father, and Doctor Watson is offered the seat Tristram usually has, on the other side of Grandmother. She doesn't say anything to Emily (in fact, Tristram realises she hasn't so much as acknowledged Emily's presence with a word yet), but there is a fifth place set next to Doctor Watson, so it's obvious that she's supposed to sit there.  
  
Mrs Bowen has prepared a fine roast with potatoes, but somehow Tristram doesn't have much of an appetite. There is something strange about the mood. Father is stonily silent, while Grandmother talks on and on, using words like transdisciplinarity, masochism, exigencies, and rhetoric. Doctor Watson attempts to keep up the other end of the conversation, but even Tristram can see that he's out of his depth. Finally, Doctor Watson turns to Father and asks if he's ever had a case that involved art. Father slides his eyes over to Grandmother, but she is using the momentary pause as an opportunity to sip her wine.  
  
(Grandmother is the only person that Tristram knows of who Father ever defers to. Tristram has theorised in the past that the reason might be that she is quite possibly even cleverer than Father. She can hold her own on any subject he's ever heard raised in the house, at any rate, and can read Tristram with as much ease as his father can. But then, Father has admitted on more than one occasion that Uncle Mycroft is also terribly clever, and complained that he could just as easily do the tasks he asks Father to handle, if he could only be bothered to unglue himself from his chair. So Tristram supposes that it might not be Grandmother's cleverness after all that Father is mindful of.)  
  
When it's clear that she's also waiting for his answer, Father loosens up a bit and starts to relate a case he must have had years back, when Tristram was quite small, or even before he was born, as Tristram doesn't recall it at all. It has something to do with an art restorer and old paint and a murder that wasn't a murder after all. It's strange to remember that Father had a life before Tristram; even now, there are probably lots of things that Father does when he goes out of the house that Tristram has no idea about. Like what he gets up to with Doctor Watson. Tristram never felt left out before, when Father went gallivanting about with the police. But now, watching Father tell Doctor Watson about this old case, Tristram feels like he's standing outside a door, looking in.  
  
Doctor Watson's eyes gleam and he leans forward, putting both elbows on the table - something which Tristram has been reprimanded for exactly twice in this house before he learned not to do it, but Grandmother doesn't even bat an eyelash this time - so he can follow Father's story better. He murmurs things like 'how in the world' and 'fantastic' and 'you can't be serious' and 'incredible'.  
  
Father becomes quite animated, and gesticulates with his hands and even, at one point, a meat knife. It's almost like watching the colour change on a pH test strip, going from the dun-coloured mid-tones to the bright orange or blue at the ends of the colour guide.  
  
His father has always liked talking about his cases. Half the time when he's working through something at the flat, he talks to himself under his breath. Occasionally - more so as Tristram has grown older - he will share some points of his investigations with Tristram, explaining how he came to his conclusions. Tristram has always assumed that these were lessons. But watching his father come to life now, enjoyment and enthusiasm written large across his features, Tristram begins to form another hypothesis: his father talks about his cases the same way that Tristram and Emily talk about potions or building a time machine. Only his father has never had an Emily on the other end. And that brings Tristram to an uncomfortable thought: has his father been lonely? Tristram wouldn't ever have said he was lonely before Emily became his friend, but now, if he considers going back to how things were three months ago, he has to admit that he was. Maybe Father has been too.  
  
There aren't many people he can discuss his cases with. Inspector Lestrade, of course, but that's his job. Some of the other police officers, although when Tristram's heard his father speaking to them on the phone, he's usually exasperated and insulting, and his muttered comments about them around the flat aren't any better. Uncle Mycroft, but only when Father has no other option, and those conversations are never exactly friendly.  
  
But now, Father seems, well, happy. Happy to have a receptive audience in Doctor Watson. Tristram wonders now if he should have been more engaged, more enthusiastic, more curious, when Father mentioned his work. More like Doctor Watson. He can't change it now, of course, but the regret looms large.  
  
And Doctor Watson seems genuinely interested, not just being polite like he was with Grandmother. There's something more, too, in the expectant way Doctor Watson raises his eyebrows and bites his lip when Father makes a dramatic pause, and in the almost self-conscious smiles Tristram's father falls into at Doctor Watson's laudatory comments.  
  
Grandmother, throughout the recounting, sits calmly and eats her roast, following the exchange between Doctor Watson and Father as if it were a tennis match.  
  
At the conclusion of the story, Doctor Watson leans back and flops both hands down on the armrests of his chair. "I never would have seen that coming."  
  
Tristram's father smirks and lifts his wine glass. "No one did, John, that's why they called me in."  
  
Doctor Watson chuckles and picks up his glass as well. "And modest to boot." To Grandmother, he says, "You have quite an incredible son, you know."  
  
Grandmother smiles. "Intellectual pursuits have always been highly prized in our family. It stands to reason that Sherlock finds gratification in exercising his mind."  
  
Doctor Watson doesn't look entirely pleased with that answer, but right then, Emily leans against her father's arm and asks in a small voice, "When can we go home?"  
  
Grandmother raises her eyebrows very slightly but doesn't say anything.  
  
"Soon, Ems, it won't be long," Doctor Watson answers her softly. "If you're done, you and Tris can go play."  
  
"I don't want to play," Emily very nearly whinges.  
  
Grandmother lays her cutlery down. "Why don't you take the children to the beach this afternoon? It will do them good to get out of the house."  
  
Tristram is a little surprised at the suggestion. It's still raining, for one thing. And they were just out of the house for a good portion of the morning. But Doctor Watson latches onto the idea with enthusiasm.  
  
"Hey, the beach!" he exclaims to Emily with more feeling than Tristram feels is warranted. After all, it's winter. They won't be able to do much. "We haven't been to the beach in ages,” Doctor Watson continues. “Years, probably. Do you remember when we went to Bournemouth for the weekend? You must have been... six, I guess. And we built that sand castle with the princess in the tower?"  
  
Emily looks interested, but still doubtful. "It's cold and it's raining," she points out, quite fairly.  
  
Doctor Watson glances out the window. "It's not that bad. I think it's even letting up. And we don't need to go in the water. I'd quite like to see the sea, anyway, as long as we're here. Sherlock?" He looks across the table for support.  
  
Tristram looks up at his father, too, genuinely wondering what his answer will be. If they were here alone, just he and his father and Grandmother, Father would certainly say it was a stupid idea, and that if Tristram needed fresh air, he could go out into the garden. But Father's reactions have broken his usual patterns several times now where Doctor Watson and Emily are concerned.  
  
In fact, Tristram's father does seem to be fighting an internal battle; possibly regarding how much rudeness he can get away with. After a few moments, he acquiesces: "If you really want to, you can take the car. Perhaps Tristram would like to go as well."  
  
Tristram wouldn't normally jump at the chance to visit the beach on a cold, rainy November afternoon, but so far, Doctor Watson and Emily have managed to make nearly everything fun. This will certainly be no exception.  
  
"I don't know where it is," Doctor Watson points out. "You should come along."  
  
Tristram's father frowns. "My time will be better spent here."  
  
"It might be best if we all stayed together," Doctor Watson says carefully, as if he's trying to get some extra meaning across. "You can take your mobile along. Reception might be better there."  
  
"Yes, the reception will be better behind a hill and further away from civilisation," Tristram's father says in a way that means he doesn't believe that will be the case at all.  
  
Still, half an hour later finds the four of them back in Uncle Mycroft's car. Doctor Watson was right: the rain has let up, mostly. Father looks like he's on a case, with the olive green windcheater he scrounged up from somewhere. Tristram wonders why he didn't bring his big black overcoat.  
  
Emily has cheered up a bit at the prospect of an outing (and the promise of a stick of rock, should they find a store that sells it), and she teaches Tristram _I Spy_ and the _Alphabet_ game to pass the time. They're both devastatingly easy, but somehow Tristram finds himself having fun, especially once Doctor Watson joins in. He plays several rounds with them, until Father receives a message on his phone.  
  
All Tristram hears is something about 'Mycroft' before Father's and Doctor Watson's voices get too low to make anything out. Emily keeps shouting out letters, and it's nearly impossible to hear the whispers from the front seat over hiss of the wet tyres on the macadam road anyway.  
  
When they pull into the gravel field that serves as a car park, the wind has picked up, twisting ragged wisps down from the dark gray clouds and whipping Tristram's hair into his eyes as soon as he gets out of the car. The sea is laced with foam as it sloshes up against the rough, dark stones protecting the beach. Tristram can feel the wild energy of the abating storm, and he and Emily barely need to exchange delighted grins before tearing off pell mell onto the expanse of pebbles and shells.  
  
"Come on, Dad!" she screams over the wind and surf.  
  
Tristram barely hears the answering "Be there in a minute!" before he and Emily reach the high tide line marked by a contour of green and gray froth mixed with bits of wood and other detritus. Emily checks behind her, momentarily uncertain, but her father waves and signals that she and Tristram are fine where they are. When Tristram looks back, he catches his father angling his phone so that Doctor Watson can see the screen. It'll probably be more than a minute before they come down.  
  
Tristram thinks that Doctor Watson would appreciate it if Tristram engaged Emily in something so that she doesn't worry, like he did with the Go game. "Come on, let's see if we can find some spider crabs," he says. He scans the debris until he finds a likely stick, then crouches down and starts flipping rocks over. A moment later, Emily joins him. Tristram smiles.  
  


&&&&&&

  
Sherlock holds his right arm across his body so that John, on his left, can see the phone. The angle is less than practical, so he edges in until he's nearly behind John and puts his left hand on his shoulder. John's stance is stiff, but he reaches up with his left hand to tilt the screen in order to get a better view. His fingers overlap Sherlock's on the back of the phone.  
  
"Do you know any of them?" John asks.  
  
Sherlock scrolls through the four attached images from Mycroft, waiting for John to nod, indicating that he's absorbed the details of each face, before clicking to the next one.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. His chin brushes the side of John's head. "No," he says. "It's better this way. They'll come at the assignment without prejudice."  
  
John turns partially toward Sherlock. His shoulder makes contact with Sherlock's chest and his frown quickly gives way to a half grin. "You mean you haven't pissed any of them off yet."  
  
Sherlock makes a discontented noise. "Do you have their faces memorised?"  
  
John glances down at the phone. "Yeah, I'm good. You can go ahead and delete them." He lets go of the phone and Sherlock's fingers.  
  
Sherlock thumbs through the controls. When he's finished, he stays where he is, though, tightening his grip on John's shoulder slightly in order to pull him in closer against his body.  
  
"We should get down to the kids," John says, but he doesn't move away.  
  
"Nothing is going to come at them from the sea," Sherlock says. "They're perfectly content to poke in the mud." He turns his head until his cheek rests against John's temple. He can feel John's respiration increase under his hand and against his chest.  
  
"Sherlock, I thought we... We can't afford a distraction. Not now." John leans into Sherlock's touch, belying his words.  
  
Sherlock lowers his head in order to speak directly into John's ear. "No one is here." He waits, giving John one last chance to move away, before dragging his lips over the curve of John's ear. He feels the slight vibration of the choked sound John makes in response more than he hears it.  
  
"The kids..." John says, his eyes already fluttering closed.  
  
"...are perfectly safe. I can see them." Sherlock sounds impatient; irritated.  
  
"That's not what-" John starts, but he stops when Sherlock gently kisses the side of John's cheek. John twists farther to meet him, and then they are kissing properly. John gets one hand inside Sherlock's jacket and Sherlock slides his hand up onto John's neck so he can feel the solid warmth of John's skin, under the military-clean line of his hair.  
  


&&&&&&

  
Tristram keeps his head down, grateful for once for the unruly curls that fall into his eyes. His body is positioned parallel to the shore, but he has a perfectly good view of his father and Doctor Watson from the corner of his eye, through his hair. There is no mistaking what they are doing. Tristram has gone absolutely numb. He cannot think. He cannot even say anything to Emily, who has her back to them and is completely engrossed in the little air holes winking open and closed in the wet sand. He doesn't want her to know, suddenly, even though she's the one who always said they were kissing, before.  
  
It's not that his father is kissing a man - although he's perfectly aware that is a behaviour which the majority of men would not engage in, and in fact is likely to garner ridicule or worse. The percentage of his father's behaviours which coincide with the majority of the population is so small as to be statistically insignificant anyway; and the percentage likely to garner ridicule conversely large. He doesn't even consider the fact that, if anyone from school were to find out, it could make life difficult for him. The difficulties that come with being Sherlock Holmes' son are the warp of his life's weave, so omnipresent that they don't even register.  
  
He just... It's always been him and his father. All of the other major players in their life - Uncle Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade - have remained more or less outside their twin existence. Even Tristram, if he is brutally honest, has never entirely penetrated his father's shell. The fact that Tristram's father is letting Doctor Watson kiss him feels like that door Tristram was standing outside of before is now being slammed in his face.  
  
He feels betrayed from the other end as well: Doctor Watson is _his_ friend's father and, he'd thought, his friend as well, in a way. Tristram is the one who brought him into their lives. Doctor Watson made Tristram feel special: he wanted to hear about his soil experiment, he gave him the phone, he told Tristram he was brilliant, and he asked for Tristram's help to make Emily feel safer. He pushed Tristram on the swing, just this morning. But maybe none of it was because of Tristram. Maybe Tristram's father was the one he was interested in all along. His stomach tightens, in an unpleasant way.  
  
He must lose track of time and place for a short while, because the next thing he knows, there are long legs standing beside him, and Doctor Watson's voice is saying, "What are you two up to, then?"  
  
Emily pulls excitedly on her father's hand until he crouches down beside her, and starts chattering about crabs and shells and tsunamis, of all things. Tristram's father remains where he is, several paces away. He doesn't say anything, and Tristram doesn't look at him. Tristram pretends to be interested in a hole he's digging. When Emily pauses to take a breath, Doctor Watson asks Tristram what he's found. Tristram just shakes his head and shuffles a couple of meters to the left, mumbling something about everyone scaring the crabs away.  
  
He is suddenly utterly miserable. He doesn't want to be here, not at the beach, not at Llanbroc, not in Wales. He wants to curl up in his bed at home, in London, and read a book that will take him far away from everyone and everything. Or else go downstairs to Mrs Hudson's and let her prattle on about Mr Chatterjee and Coronation Street and her hip, while he eats apple crumble with vanilla sauce and kicks his feet against her kitchen table. He wonders, with a stab of insight that is both painful and triumphant, if this is how his father feels when he clatters down the stairs and out of the house for hours at a time. Only that would mean his father had someone who had misled him, shut him out, and abandoned him, but he doesn't. There isn't anyone.  
  
Emily is in a better mood on the way back to the house, keeping up a steady stream of questions mixed in with her own speculations about the oceans. Doctor Watson, in the driver's seat, responds patiently and with what Tristram has come to recognise as his special brand of indulgent good humour. Tristram's father even chimes in without being prompted to tell about a case involving a body that had been washed up in the Estuary. Tristram has never heard it before, and normally, he would be fascinated, but now he just wishes everyone would stop talking. He is resentful of Doctor Watson and Emily both, how they have drawn his father out of his habitual reserve and engaged him. And at the same time sickeningly guilty, because Father is happy in a way that Tristram's never seen him before. Shouldn't Tristram be happy about that too?  
  
When Father finishes the story, Emily says, "Cool!" and Doctor Watson shakes his head and says, "Incredible," and Tristram's father doesn't even try to suppress his smile. Tristram's stomach twists uncomfortably. He squeezes himself further into the corner of the seat and looks out the window and lets his eye swoop along with the rise and fall of the power lines strung beside the highway.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

  
Grandmother isn't around when they get back, but Mrs Bowen has laid out tea for them in the green parlour. Tris doesn't even really taste the biscuits as he swallows them. His father and Doctor Watson are sitting on the couch, talking, with Emily curled up on her father's lap. Tristram is slouched in one of the armchairs. He knows it shouldn't bother him as much as it does that his father and Doctor Watson are, apparently, friends now. Kissing aside, which Tristram doesn't want to think about at the moment. People have friends. It's 'healthy', as Mrs Hudson would say.  
  
Tristram overheard her once, talking to his father out in the hall one night when they thought he was asleep in his room. She said it wasn't healthy that Tristram never had any friends over to play. In Tristram's experience, getting close to other children is more like asking for the sniffles or a sore throat, so in actual fact it is healthier not to play with them. Of course, that isn't the reason he doesn't generally interact socially with other children; he has a strong constitution - he has to, with the microbes, moulds, necrotic flesh, and other sources of contagion sharing breathing space with him at home. It's more the fact that the other children are generally too busy making fun of the way Tristram looks, or walks, or fails to kick the ball properly, to find out what interests they might share.  
  
But Emily is different: she's the first real, true friend he's ever had, and that fact alone makes him feel a little bubble of happiness in his chest, even now, when she's clinging to her father and all but ignoring Tristram. Why shouldn't his father enjoy the same? He does want his father to be happy. It's just that he'd rather his father be happy just with him.  
  
It takes a while for him to realise that the conversation has fallen silent and everyone is looking at him.  
  
"Everything okay, Tris?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
Tristram looks at his father. He's observing Tristram in a way that Tristram knows means he can see everything that Tristram's thinking. Tristram nods and eats the rest of the biscuit in his hand. Not even Emily looks convinced.  
  
Doctor Watson suggests that Emily and Tristram might have more fun if they go find something to play, rather than sitting around in the parlour for the rest of the afternoon, but Emily staunchly refuses to leave, even going so far as to threaten tears. Tristram recognises that his father and Doctor Watson want to discuss something not meant for children's ears, but this time Tristram doesn't throw his weight behind Doctor Watson and offer Emily an enticing distraction.  
  
It ends up with Tristram's father walking out, muttering something about needing to think, and Doctor Watson making Emily and Tristram help him bring the remains of the tea things down to the kitchen. Mrs Bowen is there, making dinner, but even her offer to let Emily and Tristram help with the baking doesn't weaken Emily's resolve, and Doctor Watson ends up playing card games with Tristram and Emily upstairs until it's time to eat. That makes it even harder for Tristram to hold onto his grudge against Doctor Watson, but he manages. Mostly.  
  
Grandmother shows up for dinner and spends nearly the whole time talking to Doctor Watson. Tristram doesn't even bother trying to listen. He watches his father instead, who goes from bored to irritated to smouldering until he finally snorts and rolls his eyes at something Grandmother has said.  
  
"Of course, we know how you feel about it, Sherlock," she says, sounding exactly like Uncle Mycroft at that moment. She then resumes the thread of her conversation as if there had been no interruption.  
  
Doctor Watson holds up a hand to stop her. "No, wait. Jeanne, excuse me," he says, so politely that even Tristram can see it's no longer polite. "I'd like to hear what Sherlock thinks."  
  
Grandmother snaps her mouth shut and picks up her wine glass. "He doesn't agree, of course, because it's not something he would have thought of." She says this calmly, but Tristram hears the disapproval. He also hears another echo of Uncle Mycroft in the calmness.  
  
"I don't agree because it's an asinine-" Father begins, but Grandmother doesn't let him get any further.  
  
"Insults aren't arguments," she says, her words clipped. She turns to Doctor Watson. "I'm sorry, John," she says, more graciously this time, "but it's simply not worth rehashing."  
  
Normally, when someone talks to Father the way Grandmother just has, you can be sure they will be in for a devastatingly thorough enumeration of their faults, weaknesses, and unhappy secrets. In fact, Tristram has heard Father give Grandmother a dressing-down before, and he expects another one now. He can even see Father's eyes flashing dangerously in Grandmother's direction. But before he can open his mouth to begin speaking, Doctor Watson does.  
  
"No. Well." Doctor Watson takes his serviette from his lap and lays it on his plate, which is still half-full. "We'll take it somewhere else then." He looks across the table at Emily. "Are you finished?"  
  
Emily nods, even though she's barely touched her croquettes.  
  
"Tris?"  
  
Tristram is startled, not having expected Doctor Watson to include him. He looks at his father for a cue, but his father is watching Doctor Watson with the oddest look on his face. Tristram is wary of giving Doctor Watson any more leverage, but he is more fascinated by what is going to happen next, so he says, "Yes," and quickly gulps down the rest of his water.  
  
Doctor Watson pushes his chair back. "Thank you for dinner," he says to Grandmother as he stands. "I appreciate your hospitality, especially given all the-" He waves his hand vaguely toward the French windows, which Tristram finds puzzling; does he mean the weather? "- and I know this is all a very big imposition. But your son is the most incredible, most interesting person I've ever met, and if not even his opinions count, then I'm afraid the rest of us haven't a chance."  
  
Grandmother laughs, which makes her appear charming and young. "Oh, John, really, it's nothing to spoil dinner over. I only meant-"  
  
Father finally moves, standing as well. The flash in his eyes has moved from Grandmother to John, only it looks different now. Still dangerous, but... without the darkness underneath. "No, John's right,” Father says. “The sooner we can put this entire situation to rest, the best for everyone. We'll hopefully be out of your way by tomorrow."  
  
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, you know that, Sherlock. You and your friend." Grandmother looks concerned and sincere. If Father put on that face, Tristram would know he was pretending, but on Grandmother it looks believable.  
  
Father frowns, like he doesn't know what she means by that, then walks out without responding. Doctor Watson offers a curt 'Good night' before following. Emily hurries after him. Tristram is left hovering a bit uncertainly, but finally decides he was meant to be included in the exodus, and slowly gets up.  
  
"You too, Tristram?" Grandmother sighs. "Come here then, at least say good night properly. I shouldn't be surprised if he sweeps you all out of here in the middle of the night again." She holds out a hand to him and offers her cheek.  
  
Tristram gives her a quick kiss and says, "Good night."  
  
He steps back, but Grandmother doesn't let go of his hand yet. "What do you think of John?" she asks, giving him the same keen look his father does when he's trying to figure out the answer before he hears it.  
  
Tristram doesn't know what to say to that. Rather than examining his own feelings too closely, he tries to divine what he thinks his grandmother wants him to say. Despite the little scene he just witnessed - which he still doesn't quite understand - he thinks that she actually likes Doctor Watson; she did spend a lot of time talking to him, and tried to get him to stay at the end.  
  
Tristram finally settles on, "He's nice," because it's bland and inoffensive and objectively true. Doctor Watson is nice to pretty much everyone.  
  
Grandmother snorts a little. "Not the word I would have chosen. But it's probably best that you think so," she says, which is strange, because of course it's best to think people are nice. Doesn't she think Doctor Watson is nice? And if not, why does she like him? Or has Tristram misunderstood something again? "Go on now," she says and lets go of his hand. "Before they think I'm filling your brain with ideas."  
  
Tristram, more confused than ever, goes upstairs. Looking for Emily, he finds Doctor Watson alone in their room, sitting on the bed with his phone in his hand. He looks up and smiles when Tristram appears in the doorway. He looks tired, but... nice. Tristram can't dredge up any of the resentment he wants to feel. Just then, he's glad Doctor Watson is here with them at Grandmother's.  
  
Doctor Watson puts his phone in his pocket. "Em's in the bath," he says, nodding toward the closed bathroom door. "Why don't you go get cleaned up too, and then maybe we can play a game or something."  
  
"Where's my father?" Tristram asks.  
  
"Checking on something." The answer is probably meant to be reassuring in its vagueness, the same way Mrs Hudson sometimes says Father 'just popped out for a bit' when he comes home from school to an empty flat. It doesn't stop Tristram from thinking of guns and knives; nor does it stop Father from re-appearing, sometimes not until the next day (or even longer) with tender ribs and black eyes and clothes that don't look like his and smell like sick or worse.  
  
Tristram goes back across the hall to clean up and put on his pyjamas. He takes his phone out of his trousers and looks around for someplace to put it for the night, as his pyjamas don't have any pockets. He doesn't want to put it into his school bag or a drawer, where it would be too hard to get at in the dark. He settles for sliding it underneath his pillow. He'll just have to wake up enough to grab it if they leave in the middle of the night again.  
  
Doctor Watson said they might still play a game together, but Tristram would honestly rather be alone. He's actually feeling a bit sleepy, even though it isn't very late, after being outside most of the day. He gets his Harry Potter book out of his school bag and climbs into bed.  
  
He's only read about half a chapter when there is a knock at his door. "Tris?" It's Emily's father.  
  
"Come in," Tris says, letting the book flop down onto the duvet.  
  
Doctor Watson opens the door. Emily is with him. Her hair is damp, and she's wearing a yellow striped t-shirt that hangs down to the middle of her thighs, with a pair of flowered leggings underneath. At first, Tristram thinks the t-shirt must be one of Doctor Watson's, but then he notices the cut of the neckline and realises it was probably her mother's. Tristram doesn't have anything of his mother's. There isn't even a picture. He's never wondered about that, but now he does. Did she not leave anything behind? Or did his father destroy everything? Not that he has any particular need for a memento of a woman he never knew. He's just curious.  
  
"Everything all right?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
Tristram nods. "Fine."  
  
"You up for another round of Snap?" He holds up the pack of cards in his hand.  
  
Tristram shakes his head. "No thanks."  
  
Emily comes in and crawls over the bed to put her hand against Tristram's forehead. Tristram minds a bit that she's encroaching on his space without so much as a by-your-leave. On the other hand, it's a weird kind of nice that she doesn't hesitate to do so. Like she belongs there or something.  
  
"Are you sure you're not sick?" she asks, staring into his eyes as if she could see a diagnosis written there. "You've been acting kind of funny."  
  
Tristram shakes his head again and pulls away. "No. Just tired." It's probably even true. He has too many thoughts about what's happened over the past two days to divert any energy toward social interaction. He's not used to having people around all the time, especially people who want to talk to him and do things with him. Also, he feels inexplicably guilty about keeping the fact of their fathers kissing from Emily. If it were the other way round, he'd want her to tell him. Not that he'd be happy about it, but he'd want to know. He doesn't even think she'll be unhappy about it. Probably just the opposite, in fact, judging by how excited and interested she was when it was merely unfounded speculation on her part. Maybe that's the problem. He doesn't want to have to explain to her why he's not quite as enthusiastic as she is. He doesn't even know the answer to that himself.  
  
Doctor Watson sits down on the bottom corner of the bed. "Maybe I could read to the two of you, then," he suggests. "Em and I usually read together before bed, but we didn't bring any of her books." Tristram is a bit surprised to hear that. There was a time when Tristram's father used to read to him, but that was before Tristram learned to read himself. Emily can read. Why would she need her father to read to her? It's not like when Tristram read the Harry Potter book to Emily at Uncle Mycroft's house. That was just a trick so she wouldn't get in trouble.  
  
"What do you have there?" Doctor Watson nods at the book lying open in front of Tristram.  
  
Tristram could beg off and say he wants to go to sleep directly, but despite his mixed feelings about Doctor Watson, he doesn't want to be rude to Emily. And it won't take any effort on his part if Doctor Watson is doing the reading. He doesn't even really have to listen. The only problem is... Tristram shoots a glance at Emily. He doesn't want her to get in trouble. But Doctor Watson won't know that he and Emily started reading the book together earlier. Emily, still crouched next to him, just raises her eyebrows at him as if to say, 'It's your call.'  
  
Tristram lifts the book so Doctor Watson can see the cover. He expects him to say something disapproving, but he just widens his eyes and says, "Oh." And then, after a moment, "Right. You've read the first three then?"  
  
Tristram nods. It would be kind of dumb to start reading in the middle of the series.  
  
"All by yourself?"  
  
Tristram nods again, feeling a flash of irritation. Honestly, he's nearly nine!  
  
"And it's..." Doctor Watson frowns, like he's trying to figure out how to say something. Then his face straightens out and he sighs. "Right, okay. We can..." He holds out his hand, asking for permission. "May I?"  
  
Tristram folds down the corner of the page he's on so he won't lose his place and hands the book over.  
  
Doctor Watson flips through the book a bit. "Em wanted to read this next, but I thought it might be a bit too intense. But you're okay with it?" He looks at Tristram.  
  
Tristram shrugs, both proud that Doctor Watson values his opinion and apprehensive about him possibly not agreeing with it. "There are some kind of scary parts," Tristram says, "but I just remember that it's not real and then it's okay."  
  
"All right, we'll give it a try then. If it's all right with you, that is?" Doctor Watson checks with Tristram. "Maybe you can run through what's happened so far and we'll keep going where you left off." He pages forward to the place Tristram marked.  
  
"You can start at the beginning. I don't mind," Tristram says, as he thinks that would be more polite. Also, he won't have to pay attention this way, as it will be the third time he's read - or now, heard - the first chapter.  
  
"All right," Doctor Watson agrees and flips back to the beginning. "You comfortable there, Em?"  
  
Emily scoots back against the headboard so she's sitting next to Tristram. She's on top of the duvet and he's underneath it, but her upper arm rests against his. It's nice and cosy, and Tristram finds he doesn't mind the intrusion on his privacy that much after all.  
  
"Can you start at chapter three? Tris actually started reading it to me yesterday," Emily confides in a guilty whisper.  
  
Tristram is surprised by the confession. He cringes a bit in anticipation of Doctor Watson's reaction.  
  
Doctor Watson looks at her in surprise, then at Tristram, then back at Emily. "Oh really?" He sounds more amused than angry.  
  
Tristram relaxes minutely, but says, "I'm sorry," anyway.  
  
"No, you-" Doctor Watson shakes his head, then continues more gently, "It's all right, Tris. I'm not upset. I suppose Emily told you I was iffy about it. But I trust your judgment. Chapter three, you say?"  
  
Emily squeezes Tristram's arm. Tristram turns to her. She is nodding at him happily. Tristram smiles back, and the little ball of happiness in his stomach re-asserts itself. Then Doctor Watson begins reading.  
  


&&&&&&

  
"John?" Sherlock calls once the water turns off in the shared bath between his room and Mycroft's old one.  
  
John opens the door from the bathroom and leans in. "Just finished putting the kids to bed." He speaks in a low voice, nodding behind him toward the room he shares with Emily.  
  
Sherlock is standing by the window. He holds up his phone and waggles it. "I got a message. Well, a series of messages, but together they can only mean one thing."  
  
John wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans and enters the room. "What is it?"  
  
There is a sparkle in Sherlock's eye, threatening to tip over into an expression of genuine excitement. "Moran's dead."  
  
John stops where he is, halfway between the bathroom and Sherlock. He clenches his fists at his sides. "Are you sure this time?"  
  
"As sure as I can be without seeing the body and running a DNA analysis on it myself."  
  
John's breaths have become heavier, his nostrils flaring with the effort. He appears to be frozen, unable to look away.  
  
"Do you need to sit down?" Sherlock asks. He doesn't sound so much concerned as curious; possibly even with a hint of incredulity.  
  
John blinks and shakes his head. "No, just..." He puts a hand over his mouth, then scrubs it up over his face into his hair. He sucks on his lip and looks up at the ceiling as if he could find an appropriate response there. "Well, that's good, right?" he says finally, his briskness belying the underlying quaver in his voice. "I mean, that's what we wanted. He's - He was the one behind Mary's death. Not that it was about revenge," he says, pointing at Sherlock emphatically. "You put me in an untenable position."  
  
"There's no point in going over all of that again," Sherlock says testily and brushes past John toward the desk. "You disagree with my methods, despite the fact that they resulted in exactly the outcome both of us wanted."  
  
"You weren't so certain of that last night."  
  
"And now I am. The ends justify the means, John. You only needed that little extra incentive." He flips his phone in the air, catches it, and slides it into the front pocket of his trousers.  
  
"Incen- You call that a little extra incentive?" He catches himself before he starts shouting and continues in an intense whisper. "Your life - Your life, Sherlock, is not a little extra incentive!"  
  
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "If he'd really wanted to kill me, he could have done so immediately. He had me on my knees for at least a minute, posturing and gloating, before you shot him."  
  
"I'll remember that for next time, shall I?" John says, a bit manically. "Maybe pop in myself, just to hear what he has to say. We still don't know, for example, who Mary's actual killer was."  
  
Sherlock flicks his fingers again. "Unimportant." At the look of outraged disbelief on John's face, he clicks his tongue impatiently and says, "I mean, important, yes, he'll be brought to justice, etcetera, but at this point it's just details. Clean-up. It's practically something the police could handle." He flops down into the armchair at the desk.  
  
John raises his eyebrows. "Speaking of."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"The police. I assume someone's identified Moran's body? That's how you're so certain he's dead? The police will be involved now. Looking for Moran's killer. Looking for _me_ , not to put too fine a point on it."  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No. There's no body."  
  
"Then how-"  
  
"John, please, think for once. A criminal of Moran's calibre, killed by what is obviously a professional hit. His organisation would never allow the police to become involved in investigating his death. They've disposed of the body quietly. Officially, he'll simply disappear."  
  
John lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, facing Sherlock. "What do you mean, his organisation? I thought Moran was it, that everything would fall apart without him."  
  
"Clearly not everything," Sherlock says, as if this were a point he'd been belabouring for some time, but there is a slight furrow between his eyebrows that hints at something else. "Someone's going to take advantage of the confusion and try to fill the power vacuum. We have a window of a week, by my estimation, during which they'll be more interested in trying to outmanoeuvre each other than in dealing with whoever killed their former boss. If we're very lucky, they won't bother with us at all. But we can't rely on that. Someone's bound to try and be clever eventually. It would certainly solidify their position within the ranks if they were to best the ones who bested Moran."  
  
"A week," John repeats flatly. "And what exactly are we doing during that time? Do we even have a clear objective any more, or has this all become some sort of game for you, seeing how much trouble you can stir up?"  
  
"The objective is the same as ever: exposing your wife's -"  
  
"Mary's," John interrupts.  
  
Sherlock pauses and gives John a curious look. "Were you married more than once?"  
  
"No, but her name's Mary. You never say her name. It was Mary."  
  
Sherlock stares at John for a moment, then says slowly, "Exposing _Mary's_ killer." The name comes out of his mouth oddly, an incongruity, as if he'd started talking in thees and thous. He then resumes his enumeration: "Discovering the reason for the methylfentanyl device. And making sure that neither my son nor your - Emily," he corrects himself before John can open his mouth, the name again sounding as if it's a word in an unfamiliar language, "is threatened with harm again."  
  
"And you can do all of that from here?" John asks, scepticism mixing with genuine admiration at the extent of Sherlock's skills.  
  
But Sherlock scowls. "Obviously not, I can't do anything from here." He throws his arms up in frustration. "I have no signal most of the time, no access to my contacts, no access to _anything_ -"  
  
"So you go back, and I stay here with the kids."  
  
Sherlock looks away, fiddling with one of the pens lying on the desk blotter. "I'd feel safer having Tristram with me," he says, as if it were a painful admission. "If something were to happen here while I'm in London-"  
  
John sighs. "Yeah, I get it. I'd feel the same way. But don't you think taking them back is asking for another attempt?"  
  
Sherlock frowns. "As I said, by my estimation-"  
  
"A week, yeah, I got it," John says wearily.  
  
"I'd rather go back tonight, but -"  
  
"No, those kids need at least one good night's sleep," John insists. "A few more hours won't make that much difference. We can leave first thing. You and I could probably do with a kip too, come to it. You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?"  
  
Sherlock shakes his head, not so much a negation as brushing off the question. "Immaterial."  
  
"It's material, but it's up to you." John slaps his thighs with both hands. "I'm going to try and get some anyway." He makes as if to stand, but Sherlock speaks first.  
  
"Stay."  
  
John freezes, halfway off the mattress. Sherlock is still looking at the pen, rolling it back and forth on the desk with his long fingers. John drops back down onto the bed, but leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He presses his palms together in front of his mouth and watches Sherlock. After a while, when nothing further is forthcoming, he drops his hands between his knees and hangs his head.  
  
"Sherlock, we can't," he says in a low voice, but it's more than half a question.  
  
Sherlock swallows heavily but doesn't say anything. He stops moving the pen. He also doesn't look at John.  
  
John leans further forward until he can put his hand on Sherlock's knee. Sherlock closes his eyes. His breath catches. John slides his hand up the inside of Sherlock's leg, stopping halfway up his thigh. His arm is stretched as far as it can go without him getting up. Sherlock's hands are now gripping the arms of his chair.  
  
"You should go," Sherlock says in a low voice, without opening his eyes.  
  
John lifts himself off the bed and slides his hand the rest of the way up.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

  
Tristram can't sleep. He's been lying in the dark for a long time. He's not used to this complete blackness. Even with the curtains drawn tight in his room back home, there's enough light from the street lamps outside for him to see the outlines of every piece of furniture, the globe Uncle Mycroft gave him for his birthday after he'd seen how fascinated Tristram was by the big one in his office, the row of glass jars on his window sill where he was testing evaporation rates. Here, the only illumination is from the moon, and the heavy green drapes are doing a very thorough job of blocking even that faint light. He can't even see the lamp on the night stand right next to him, impractical if he needed to turn it on in a hurry.  
  
It's also too quiet. He's used to the sounds of the city outside his window: the grumble of cars down in the street; the laughter of teenagers dosed with bravado and alcopop; the sudden whine of a motorcycle revving past; the shrill whistle of someone trying to get his mate's attention from a block away; the intermittent, distant (and sometimes not-so-distant) blare of emergency services. And of course his father downstairs playing the violin, or shouting at someone on the phone, or clanking around in the kitchen, working on experiments that he only gets out once Tristram is in bed.  
  
Now, he strains to hear something - anything. He fancies he hears voices; probably his father and Doctor Watson, discussing whatever they couldn't discuss before with Tristram and Emily around. Something about the reason they're here. He listens harder, but now he can't hear anything at all. Either they've stopped talking, or they've gone somewhere else to continue. The silence presses in on his ears.  
  
Tristram tosses and turns a bit, but it feels like there is a current buzzing through his body, making it impossible for him to lie still. (He knows, following an experiment with batteries and circuit boards, what the buzz of electricity feels like. It's unexpected and makes him want to twist away from it, but not painful.) He sighs and sits up. He considers turning on the light and reading some more, but he doesn't think he could concentrate on the story. He needs some kind of stimulation, though, something other than this black cotton-wool he feels the room is stuffed with.  
  
He gropes his way slowly to the window and pulls back the curtain. This room looks out on the side of the house, where there's nothing but some trees and a gravel path leading to the garden in the back. It's a relief for his eyes to have something to focus on, even if it is only the black shapes of the trees and the lighter grey of the path. Maybe he will see a fox or a badger. He knows there are some on the grounds, or at least used to be; his father took him out early one morning when they were here in the summer and pointed out the droppings and tracks they'd left during the night.  
  
He's been standing there for several minutes when he catches movement in the corner of his eye. He tries to make out what it is, but staring directly at the spot makes it disappear. He looks away, and catches the movement again. It's bigger than a fox or a badger. In fact, Tristram is fairly certain it must be a person. Whatever (whoever) it is, it's skirting the edge of the path, keeping just within the shadow of the trees. Now there is a brief flash of light, tiny and yellow, followed by a much duller orange spot and then nothing again. It doesn't take long for Tristram to realise that the strange figure has lit a cigarette.  
  
If this were Baker Street, he wouldn't think twice about someone passing by - or even lingering for a cigarette - outside his window, but this is all private property. In his mind, he runs through the people he knows of who might be here by rights - Grandmother, Mrs Bowen, one of the gardeners - but it's pretty late for any of the staff to be around, and anyway, any of them would be on the path proper. It occurs to him that it might be his father, poking around in the underbrush, or just gone outside for a smoke. Although he almost always stands on the terrace outside the green parlour to smoke when they're here. And then it occurs to him even more strongly that his father told him to report anything unusual to him right away.  
  
Tristram takes one last look, but he can't see any movement any more, nor any sign of a cigarette. He makes his way across the room in the dark, not wanting to alert whoever it is to the fact that someone's observing him (or her) by turning on the light. He has to move slowly, feeling his way from one piece of furniture to the next until he finds the door.  
  
It's dark in the hallway too, but there is a line of light showing under the door of his father's room. He knows what to do when he needs to speak to his father but the door is closed. He's to knock, wait for an answer, and if there isn't any, he can go in. This may seem counterintuitive, but the reason for a closed door is generally to shield Tristram from noxious chemicals or particularly gruesome dissections. Or, obviously, if Father is using the toilet or something like that. If Tristram isn't to enter yet, Father will say so. If Father can't answer due to incapacitation, it may in fact be vitally important for Tristram to open the door and find out so he can alert Mrs Hudson (that only happened once, when Tristram was six, but they got the room aired out and didn't even need to call an ambulance). Sometimes, Father has simply fallen asleep or is thinking and can't be bothered to respond, and then it doesn't really matter if Tristram comes in. Chemicals and body parts are unlikely here in the bedroom at Llanbroc.  
  
Tristram knocks once, lightly, and says, "Father?" as loudly as he dares, not wanting to wake Emily and Doctor Watson in the next room. He waits a moment, then, not hearing any response, opens the door.  
  
He freezes, blinking in the sudden brightness, completely unable to process what he sees.  
  
In the next second, Doctor Watson has sprung up off the bed, saying a bad word. He doesn't have a shirt on.  
  
Tristram's father props himself up on his elbows where he is lying reclined on the bed. He does have a shirt on, but it's unbuttoned all the way and hanging off his shoulders. His face is red and puffy, like... as if he'd been crying, or something, but his eyes aren't wet. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, so maybe he really was crying.  
  
"What is it?" Father asks as he swings his legs around to sit up properly. His voice comes out deep and rough.  
  
Tristram cannot possibly make a sound.  
  
Doctor Watson has come up with an undershirt from somewhere and is trying madly to get it on, which is only resulting in it getting twisted around the wrong way. "It's all right, Tris. We were just tired, and..."  
  
"For God's sake, John," Father says tetchily. "He's not an imbecile, he can see what we were doing."  
  
"And he shouldn't have seen-"  
  
Father interrupts him: "Something's wrong." He gets up and walks over to Tristram, keeping his eyes firmly locked on Tristram's. "What is it?" He puts his hands on Tristram's shoulders and leads him to the bed, making him sit down on the edge. Right next to where -  
  
Tristram's brain is only now catching up. Doctor Watson was lying on top of Father. He was kissing him. Kissing, not crying. That's what they were doing. Father was holding onto him. He wanted him there. Tristram feels like he's the one that's going to cry. He knows that what he saw was more than kissing. Putting your mouths together, that's kissing (which is kind of gross, but his father does lots of things - enjoys lots of things - that most people would consider gross; also, the people in Mrs Hudson's shows on the telly kiss, sometimes a lot, so Tristram knows it's normal behaviour for adults. Maybe they get used to the grossness, like they do the taste of coffee). But Doctor Watson and Father were in bed together. Their bodies were touching. All over. They had their clothes off - some of them, anyway. They both still had their trousers on. Were they … doing it? He knows it's called something else, but he doesn't even want to use that word in his head. Tristram also knows, technically, abstractly, how a man and a woman make a baby, and that two men can do something similar, even if it doesn't result in a baby. He can't think that thought through any further. He tears his eyes away, unable to look at his father anymore.  
  
"Tristram..." Tristram knows that tone of voice. It means that Father is trying very hard to be patient. He almost never succeeds. "What - is - wrong?" His hands squeeze Tristram's shoulders, as if he's trying to squeeze the answer out of him.  
  
Tristram's mind is completely blank. Why did he even come in here?  
  
"Tris..." It's another voice. Gentler, softer. Then it gets sharp as it says, "Sherlock, let go of him, Jesus, that's not helping." The grip on his shoulders disappears. Tristram feels unmoored.  
  
Another touch lands on his upper arm. Tristram looks down at the hand - square fingers, light brown hairs on the back, an old scar faded white on the knuckle of the thumb. He follows the line of the arm it's attached to until he is looking at alert blue eyes in a weathered face. Doctor Watson is crouched down next to him. He's wearing an undershirt now, but it's inside-out.  
  
"Are you feeling sick?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
Yes, Tristram thinks, but that's not why he's here. He's here to-  
  
It all comes back to him in a rush: the path, the shadowy movement, the flash of light. "There's someone outside," he blurts out. He turns to his father, suddenly full of urgency as his brain whirs back online. "I saw them out my window, next to the path. They lit a cigarette."  
  
Father's eyes flash to Doctor Watson, then back to Tristram. "What were they doing?"  
  
"I couldn't tell. I couldn't even really see them. I just saw something moving next to the path, under the trees. Bigger than an animal."  
  
"And the cigarette?"  
  
Tristram tries to describe the two different kinds of light he saw, and everything else he can recall about the figure. While he's speaking, Father is already typing something into his phone.  
  
"Ours?" Doctor Watson asks Father.  
  
"Most likely, but if so, Mycroft should have him drawn and quartered for being so stupid as to give away his position for a nicotine fix."  
  
Tristram doesn't understand most of that, but he does get the feeling that perhaps Father isn't as surprised by Tristram's report as he thought he might be. "Do you know who it was?" Tristram asks.  
  
"We'll know shortly." His father finishes his text and sends it, then stands and walks to the door, buttoning his shirt as he goes. "Come and show me, Tristram," he says.  
  
Tristram is about to get up, but Doctor Watson's hand on his arm holds him back, albeit gently.  
  
"Are you sure you're okay, Tris?" he asks.  
  
Tristram nods. He feels stupid now, his shock giving way to embarrassment.  
  
"We can talk about it... about everything, tomorrow," Doctor Watson says.  
  
Tristram knows he means what Tristram saw him and Father doing. He would rather forget about it entirely, but he mumbles, "Okay," so that Doctor Watson will let him go.  
  
Tristram gets off the bed and Doctor Watson straightens up.  
  
"I'll go check on Emily," he says.  
  
Tristram follows his father back down the hall to his room. They don't turn on the light, but Father uses his phone to light the way so they don't run into anything. Once they get to Tristram's room, though, he turns it off before going in, and now Tristram is truly walking blindly, his eyes not yet re-adjusted to the darkness.  
  
Father stands carefully to one side of Tristram's window and holds the edge of the curtain back so he can look past it.  
  
"Where did you see them?" Father asks in a low voice.  
  
Tristram starts to step forward to show him, but Father stops him with a hand on his chest.  
  
"Never put yourself in the direct line of fire," Father says fiercely and pulls Tristram in close against his hip. Tristram likes that. It makes him feel safe. Father then asks Tristram several questions - which direction the person was coming from, how fast they were moving, whether Tristram heard anything - which Tristram tries to answer competently. All the while, they are both looking intently at the area down below, but try as he might, Tristram can't see anything more than the unmoving path and the black hulks of the trees.  
  
"Is it the bogeyman?" Tristram ventures to ask, once his father is finished with his own interrogation.  
  
"Wherever did you- Claire," he mutters in answer to his own question. Then he says more briskly, "There's no such thing as a bogeyman. There are criminals motivated by greed, and there are men and women deluded by their own sense of importance, but they are all quite ordinary, I assure you, and I will make sure that none of them come near you ever again. And as for what you saw, it was with near one-hundred percent certainty someone in your uncle Mycroft's employ, sent here to protect you."  
  
"Oh." He is even more embarrassed now, having made a fuss over nothing. He should have known. It isn't the first time Uncle Mycroft has sent bodyguards after his father.  
  
As if his father could hear his thoughts, he says, "It was right, though, to come get me. I want you to do exactly the same thing the next time something seems off to you."  
  
While Tristram is pleased by the praise, he thinks he would probably be a little more circumspect the next time. Both in judging whether a situation really warrants alarming Father, and in avoiding walking in on something like that again. Which he really hopes will never be repeated, either in or out of his presence.  
  
They stand there long enough that Tristram starts to get sleepy again. He's still pressed up against his father's side, and it's lovely and - while not exactly comfortable - comforting. He leans in a bit more and lets his head rest against his father's arm.  
  
Father stirs, gently nudging Tristram back upright. "I think you can go back to bed now," he says. "Nothing's going to happen tonight." He steps away from the window and lets the curtain fall back over the window. Then he turns his phone on again and directs the blue glow at the floor so Tristram can get to the bed without running into anything.  
  
As soon as he is under the duvet, the phone blinks off, allowing the inky blackness to return. For a moment, Tristram has the notion that Father disappeared along with the light from the phone, but then he hears him moving through the room. When he opens the door, Tristram is seized by a momentary panic at the thought of being left alone in the dark.  
  
"Father?" he says, his voice coming out more tense than he'd like.  
  
Father pauses in the doorway. "Hm?"  
  
"Will you be in your room?" He feels like a baby, wanting the reassurance, but he would just feel better knowing that his father is two doors away.  
  
"I'm going to have a look around outside. Stay away from the windows." He pulls the door shut behind him. Tristram hears him walking away - faintly - and then the cotton-wool blackness is back again. Tristram doesn't dare do anything but lie stock still under the blanket and try not to think about what's outside the window, or what he saw in his father's room. Not to think about anything at all.

&&&&&&

  
"And?" John hovers in the bathroom doorway again, having heard Sherlock returning over an hour later. He squints as his eyes adjust to the light.  
  
Sherlock flops down on his back on the bed and holds a baggie containing what looks like dirt up to the light. "They swear it wasn't one of them. None of them were on that side of the house at the time."  
  
John comes in and closes the door behind him. "Shit."  
  
"Possibly. They may be lying to cover themselves."  
  
"Or it could have been someone local, cutting across the property on their way home," John offers.  
  
"Why would someone on their way back from a pub crawl stop right under Tristram's window for a smoke?" Sherlock holds the baggie out to John.  
  
John comes over to take it. "What's this?"  
  
"Cigarette ash."  
  
John frowns at the contents. "You found this outside?"  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock drawls.  
  
"Pretty impressive," John acknowledges. He hands the baggie back to Sherlock and sits down on the edge of the bed. "It could still have been someone passing through. Maybe they just stopped long enough to light up, then kept going."  
  
Sherlock tosses the baggie onto the small table next to the bed. "They would have had to stand there for at least a couple of minutes to generate that much ash. I couldn't find the butt, though. Which means they either left before they finished, or they took it with them."  
  
"Do you think it was one of Moran's men?"  
  
Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, making it stand up wildly. It looks like it's been a couple of days since it's been washed. He tips his head back, exposing his throat, and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "I don't know. I had Mycroft's team narrow their perimeter around the house, at least until daylight."  
  
"I don't like it. We're too exposed," John says tightly. "We're leaving as soon as it gets light."  
  
"Agreed." Sherlock lets his hands drop to his sides, but keeps his eyes closed. He might be resting, or thinking.  
  
John waits. When nothing further is forthcoming after a bit, he asks quietly, "Was Tristram all right?"  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes and frowns as if he can't fathom why John would ask. "Fine."  
  
"Because when he came in... He seemed pretty shocked."  
  
"He's fine," Sherlock repeats curtly.  
  
"Did you talk to him-"  
  
"I said he's fine, John!" He slaps his hands down on the bed for emphasis. "There's nothing to talk about. He didn't see anything he wouldn't be able to see on the side of a bus."  
  
John turns to look at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised. "Oh, you're featured in the latest Calvin Klein campaign then, are you?"  
  
"He's seen me in considerably less than an open shirt before."  
  
"I hope to God watching you in bed getting off with another man isn't a regular feature in his life. But I had the impression from his reaction that it really isn't."  
  
Sherlock shifts so he can see John better and folds his hands across his stomach. "Tell me, John, I'm curious: is it the other man part or the getting off part that is supposed to scar him for life?"  
  
"You know, I don't even know. Why don't you tell me? I mean - my God, I really know nothing about you." John puts his head in his hands and laughs humourlessly. "Are you.... I mean, you seemed as surprised by all this as I am, but for all I know I'm just your boyfriend of the week."  
  
"I don't have 'boyfriends'." Sherlock sounds both disgusted and offended. "And we've known each other for considerably longer than a week, surely even you would have noticed if I were in a relationship with someone else by now."  
  
"No, okay then. So, what, are you- Jesus, this is hard." John rubs a hand down his face. "Have you ever been attracted to a man before?"  
  
"That has nothing to do with it," Sherlock retorts, still testy.  
  
"I really think it does. I mean, look, are we talking about - Never mind, let's stick to Tris for the moment. Is the idea of two men together something new to him? Or a same-gender couple in general? He's met Harry and Clara; I assumed he understood that they're married and what exactly that means-"  
  
"I haven't explained the mechanics of lesbian sex to him, if that's what you're getting at," Sherlock snipes.  
  
"No, Sherlock," John hisses, "what I'm getting at is your son very clearly has some issues relating to intimacy, and after this weekend I think I'm beginning to see why."  
  
Sherlock sits up and swings his legs around away from John. "I've had enough of this."  
  
John points at his back. "Exactly. That, right there, that's- Exactly."  
  
Sherlock stands up and goes to the desk, shuffling things around haphazardly. "You can leave now. I need to think. We may have actual killers pursuing us. We don't really have time for your sexual identity crisis."  
  
John watches him for a moment, then stands slowly and speaks to Sherlock's back. "I've always known I was bisexual. Well, since my late teens, anyway. So, no, not so much a sexual identity crisis as such. Although it has been a long time. Since before I met Mary, obviously. There hasn't been anyone since. And I know the timing couldn't be any worse, but the thing is... " He takes a steadying breath. "The thing is, Sherlock, I have never done casual sex. Ever. And I didn't think I was this time, either. So." He waits, but although Sherlock has stilled, there is no answer. Eventually, he goes to the bathroom door and opens it. "Seven o'clock?"  
  
Sherlock nods stiffly but doesn't turn around.  
  
John goes out and shuts the door behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

It's morning. Technically. It's still pitch black out, but Tristram knows he's not going to be able to sleep any more. If he has even slept at all. He must have - he doesn't think he would have been able to lie motionless staring at nothing for six hours without drifting off. But it doesn't feel like he's slept. His whole body aches, his mind is racing, and his eyes and mouth are sticky and dry. He's not ill; he can tell the difference. It's like it was just before his father took him out of his old school, when he'd lain awake night after night trying not to think about what had happened at school the day before, or how he could possibly avoid it happening again.

He has managed to blank out the actual image of his father and Doctor Watson lying on the bed together, but the knowledge is still there. It should be okay, it really should. He knows that grown-ups tend to pair off, that it's normal, but all of the adults in his life have been single as long as he's known them: Uncle Mycroft, Grandmother, Mrs Hudson …and of course Father. He's never personally known two adults who live together the way Emily's aunts do. Is that why it makes him uncomfortable? No matter the reason, he's not in the mood to be particularly reasonable anyway. He's feeling out of sorts and hard done by. Father can barely be bothered to so much as put his hand on Tristram's shoulder, but he was touching Doctor Watson _all over_. He couldn't stop whatever he was doing earlier in the evening for five minutes to come and say good night to Tristram, but he pretty clearly took more than five minutes to do a whole lot more than say good night to Emily's father. And he would have taken even longer - maybe they would have even slept in the same bed all night. Like married people do.

Emily said that their fathers might get married. A dreadful thought occurs to Tristram: could they be married already? Is that why they were in bed together? Is it possible that they're all here at Llanbroc for a completely different reason, not at all related to a case? It was Tristram's own conclusion that they came here either to get away from some threat, or so that his father could investigate something. No one ever actually said that's why they came. Maybe Father and Doctor Watson just wanted to be alone. But then why did they bring Tristram and Emily? And why the bodyguard? Why did Father tell Tristram to report anything unusual to him? And so on. These are the thoughts that plague Tristram.

He can't stand lying here any longer. He checks his watch. It's almost six-thirty. Maybe someone else is up. And even if they aren't, he has to find something to do. He turns on the light and gets dressed, takes his phone from under the pillow, and goes out into the hall. The light is off under his father's door. Tristram considers seeing if Emily is awake yet, but he doesn't want to wake her or Doctor Watson - if he's even there - by knocking, and there's no way he's going to just open the door to check. Grandmother is the next possibility, but she doesn't like to be disturbed when she's in her rooms, and her door is closed too. She might have gone downstairs already, or over to her studio. He resigns himself to going downstairs on his own.

Tristram checks the kitchen, but it's empty. Too early for Mrs Bowen to be here. He pours himself a glass of milk and stirs in two spoonfuls of chocolate powder, then wanders back up to the main level with it and kicks around the green parlour and the library, but he's too antsy to settle to anything. The sun isn't up yet, but it's getting there, the blackness outside starting to give way to a softer grey. Tristram puts on his shoes and jacket and slips outside. Everything's damp, but it's not raining. In fact, the sky is all pale violet. It looks like the sun might come out later on, once the morning mist has burned off.

Tristram heads for Grandmother's studio in the old carriage house. She sometimes spends all night there. More than once, when they've been here during the summer, Grandmother has let Tristram play with her art supplies while she works, and lost all track of the time. Not really being bothered where he sleeps, Tristram simply ends up crashing on the chaise longue in the corner while Grandmother paints or throws clay or stares at a blank canvas for hours on end. It's calming, hearing the scrape of the spatula or the hum of the pottery wheel, or, when she's deep in her dark place (as she calls it), just knowing she's sitting there across the room, warm and breathing and perfectly content for Tristram to share the space with her. Tristram would actually quite like to curl up on the chaise longue in Grandmother's studio at the moment. He hopes she's there.

As he passes the old stable, he sees a little flash of light in one of the windows. He keeps his eye on the spot, but it disappears almost immediately. He looks around but doesn't see anything obvious that might have caused a reflection. The sun isn't up nearly high enough yet, even if there weren't so much mist.

He waits for a couple of minutes, motionless, to see if something else happens. It doesn't. It was probably just a trick of the eye, like a fata morgana or something. He wouldn't even think twice about it if it weren't for the person with the cigarette outside his window last night.

But now he has. He connects the flare of yellow flame from yesterday with the flash he saw just now. Maybe it's the same person, inside the stable. One of Uncle Mycroft's men. There to protect him and Father and Doctor Watson and Emily from whatever it is they need protection from. The bogeyman, probably. He understood from the beginning, of course he did, that 'the bogeyman' wasn't a supernatural creature from a fairy tale, like a troll or a ghost. He knows the difference between made-up monsters like those in the Harry Potter stories and the real-life monsters - criminals and crazy people - his father works with the police to track down.

He can see from here that the stable door is closed. Why would the bodyguard have gone into the stable anyway? It's just dirty and smelly in there. On the other hand, it's pretty cold out, and wet, especially if he was on duty all night. Maybe he wanted to sit down somewhere dry for a bit. And, apparently, he's not supposed to be smoking while on the job. At least that's what Tristram supposes his father meant when he said the man should be drawn and quartered for indulging in a nicotine fix. Tristram knows what 'drawn and quartered' means, and he doesn't think his father meant that literally. But it still suggests that the man would be in quite a bit of trouble. So it all makes sense, actually.

Tristram is pretty pleased with himself for figuring it out. He's getting chilled too, standing there in the wet grass with only his thin jacket on. He should go on to Grandmother's studio. He's bothered by a niggling doubt, though. He wants to check whether he's right. One quick look in the stable. Maybe there's nothing there after all. Just some mice, like Doctor Watson said.

He makes his way across the grass and cautiously opens the door. It's too dark inside for him to see much of anything, other than the dull grey squares of the small windows set into the walls, and for that reason it's the smell hits him first: cigarette smoke. It's somehow darker and sweeter than the acrid stuff his father smokes, but there's no mistaking it. He feels a little jolt of triumph, but doesn't have long to pat himself on the back, because a deep voice speaks out of the dimness further inside:

"Close the door carefully, you don't want to scare them."

Tristram freezes. Of course, he'd thought there was someone in here, but he hadn't actually _expected_ it. Now he doesn't know what to do. He could leave, his observations and deductions confirmed, but on the other hand he doesn't really know yet that the voice belongs to someone Uncle Mycroft sent. Although who else would be hiding in Grandmother's stable this early in the morning? But mostly, he wonders whom he isn't meant to scare.

He takes long enough dithering that a head pokes around the side of one of the low walls dividing the space into boxes for the horses that used to reside here. The head belongs to a man with a large, flat nose and a big grin. His skin is dark like Mister Mwabila's, who sometimes gives Father a free ride in his taxi. He has a dark, close-knit hat pulled low over his forehead. He puts a finger over his lips and gestures for Tristram to come closer.

"It's a mama and three babies," he says in a low voice. He talks a little like Mister Mwabila too; or at least like someone who probably didn't grow up in London.

Tristram leaves the door open - partly for the light, and partly because no matter how friendly the man looks, he doesn't really want to be shut up in the stable with him - and takes a few steps closer. The man disappears behind the divider. Tristram is left with little choice but to step around it if he wants to see.

The man is sitting cross-legged on the floor. He's wearing dark, bulky clothes. In the shadowy gloom, Tristram can't make out much of their details, but he can see the thin white line of his cigarette balanced between the fingers of one hand. He makes a motion indicating that Tristram should sit down. Tristram stays where he is. The man takes a drag on his cigarette, then nods his head at something.

"Over there, in the corner. They're eating my breakfast, the little shits."

Now Tristram does hunker down, trying to see into the shadows where the man indicated. Then he hears it: several faint rustles, followed by a series of impossibly high squeaks. He looks at the man in delight.

"Mice?"

The man turns to the side away from Tristram and rustles around with what sounds like a plastic bag. A moment later he's holding something out. "You want to give them some? Crumble it up a bit first, mind, and don't lay it down too close to them."

Tristram takes the item - a lump of some kind of cake - and shuffles closer to the spot the sounds are coming from. And then he can see them: four grey mice, one slightly larger than the others, picking their way fastidiously around in the dirt. Tristram carefully breaks off some of the cake and dribbles it on the floor, then backs away again. The mice are suspicious and studiously avoid Tristram's gift at first, but when nothing alarming jumps out of the crumbs after a minute or so, they sniff their way over and start to nibble at them. Tristram grins at the man.

"They're eating it!" he whispers happily.

The man smiles and lifts his cigarette to his lips again. When he's blown out his mouthful of smoke, he says, "That's what they do."

When the mice start looking for more, Tristram stretches his arm out and flicks the rest of the cake bits toward them.

"You're Holmes's son, aren't you?" the man says.

Tristram nods. "And you're the bodyguard," he returns, proud of himself. He expects the man to be surprised, or incredulous, possibly even impressed, and ask how he knows that, the way people react when Father tells them something he's deduced. But the man doesn't say anything, just keeps smoking his cigarette and watching the mice. Tristram is disappointed. But then he decides the man must think someone's told him, that he didn't figure it out on his own. He feels that he should explain. "I saw you light your cigarette from outside. Same as you did last night."

The man narrows his eyes, like he's trying to remember something.

"Outside my window," Tristram says. "Wasn't that you?"

The man considers for a bit, watching Tristram, then says, "So you're on that side? Where's Watson?"

"He has Uncle Mycroft's old room."

The man grunts. "Should have known. Sharing the suite with your father. Cosy. Here." He hands Tristram some more cake. "If you make a trail you might be able to get them to come right to you. Small crumbs now, or they'll be full before they get to you and lose interest."

Tristram is eager to see if it works. He distributes the crumbs strategically in a line leading to his feet, then sits back and stays as still as he can.

"So did you tell anyone?" the man asks. "That you saw me, last night?"

Tristram bites his lip. He feels guilty now. The man is nice, and he doesn't want him to get in trouble. "My father, but... I didn't really see you, just your light. You were gone by the time he came to look. He won't know it was you, and I won't tell, I promise."

"Things could get sticky for me if anyone found out."

"I know, he said you weren't supposed to be smoking."

The man grimaces and stubs his cigarette out on the floor, then tucks the butt away in his pocket. "Damn habit, hard to break."

"My father uses nicotine patches. Maybe you could try that."

The man chuckles. "Maybe I will. Promise you won't say anything about seeing me in here either?"

"Sure," Tristram agrees, relieved that he can absolve himself in this small way.

"So, any plans for today?" the man asks.

Tristram shrugs. "Dunno." He doesn't really want to think about it. Yesterday's outing was bad enough. But if they all go somewhere again today... The prospect of seeing his father and Doctor Watson together again the way they were at the beach isn't something he thinks he could handle right now. But he's not going to have any choice, is he? Although they didn't seem to appreciate Tristram walking in on them last night, they apparently don't care who sees them kissing when they're outside. Although they probably didn't think Tristram was watching them from beneath his fringe.

All of a sudden, Tristram remembers them shaking hands for what seemed like forever that night at Emily's aunts' house, and the way they'd looked at each other for so long. Or Doctor Watson putting his hand on Father's arm and rubbing it the other time, when they came back late (Tristram had wondered what they were doing out so long, but now he thinks he knows). This has been going on so much longer, right under his nose.

On the one hand, it softens the shock, in a way, because it means that his father wasn't trying to hide something from him; Tristram was simply unobservant. He's certain that if his father really wanted to keep his relationship with Doctor Watson a secret, then no one would know about it. And they certainly wouldn't have brought him and Emily along this weekend.

On the other hand, the fact remains that his father has sectioned off yet another part of his life that Tristram isn't invited to join in on. His work takes up so much of his time already that Tristram barely sees him. Or when he does see him, he's so occupied mentally that he isn't approachable anyway. And Tristram is pretty sure that the additional time allotted to spending with Doctor Watson isn't going to come out of his father's working hours. He feels bleak. And the mice seem to have eaten their fill, or else are too distrustful, since they retreat to the shadowy edges of the enclosure and fall silent.

&&&&&&

  
"Are you sure he didn't get up again? Maybe follow you outside last night?" John clatters down the stairs after Sherlock.  
  
"His bed's still warm. He hasn't been gone more than half an hour." Sherlock leaps down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time.  
  
"Does he have any friends around here? Anyone he might have gone to?" John asks.  
  
Sherlock stops at the bottom of the stairs and wheels around to loom over John, who skids to a halt next to him. "I know this is a difficult concept for you," he snaps, "but I _am_ capable of narrowing down the most likely places my son might have got to."  
  
John holds up his hands. "Just trying to help," he says and lets Sherlock stalk away.  
  
"Daddy?" Emily is standing at the top of the stairs, still wearing her nightclothes, gripping the banister anxiously.  
  
Mrs Holmes is standing behind her with her hands on Emily's shoulders. "What can we do to help, Sherlock?" Her voice is calm and steady.  
  
"Go back to your room and keep the curtains drawn," he calls back over his shoulder as he disappears into the coat room.  
  
"Emily, you can go get dressed and pack your things," John says. "Maybe you could help her, Jeanne."  
  
Mrs Holmes nods and ushers Emily firmly away, overriding the little girl's reluctance to let her father out of her sight.  
  
"And pack the rest of Tris's things as well," John calls after them. "Anything of his you can find!"  
  
Sherlock comes back wearing the green windcheater from the day before and flicking through screens on his phone. "You're not coming with me," he says when John passes him to retrieve his own jacket.  
  
John doesn't even slow his steps. "The hell I'm not. You're not rushing off half-cocked into another trap. You were glad of my help last time."  
  
"This isn't last time. Tristram hasn't been kidnapped, he's gone off on his own."  
  
"And how do you know that?"  
  
Sherlock pauses and gives him a pained look over his phone. "What kidnapper would take the time to let him get dressed and fold his pajamas neatly over the foot of the bed, take him down to the kitchen for a glass of chocolate milk, let him drink it in the library, and finally put on his shoes and jacket before absconding with him?"  
  
"Why are you so worked up then? If he's just gone for a walk round the garden-"  
  
"John, there is someone out there -" Sherlock opens the front door and flings an arm out. "I can't prove it yet, but I know that whoever Tristram saw under his window last night was not supposed to be there. He wasn't taken from the house, but that doesn't mean that whoever is out there won't take advantage of the opportunity when they see him wandering around unprotected."  
  
"Which is exactly why I should go with you." John pulls on his jacket and joins Sherlock at the door.  
  
"No, it's exactly what they would expect. Which is why you will stay here with my mother and your daughter, and make sure that neither of them ends up being an additional opportunity."  
  
"We can have one of Mycroft's men stay here-"  
  
"Do you trust them? With your daughter's life? Can you say with one hundred percent certainty that Moran's people didn't slip a ringer in?" Sherlock points up at the ceiling. His phone beeps and he looks down at it. "It's your call. I can't stay and argue it, I've got Tristram's signal." He turns and walks out the door.

  
&&&&&&

  
"Tristram!"  
  
Tristram jerks around at the sound of his father's voice. He's charging across the lawn. He doesn't look best pleased. Tristram stops on the path and waits. He left the bodyguard back in the stable, promising again not to give him away. And the man said he'd be sure and watch out extra hard for Tristram today and make sure nothing happens to him, so Tristram thinks it's a fair deal.  
  
"I told you not to leave the house on your own," Father says as soon as he's in speaking range.  
  
Tristram's heart plummets. He remembers now: Father told him not to go out of the house without either him or Doctor Watson. Not even with Grandmother. It simply hadn't occurred to him that morning, not with everything else he was thinking about. "I forgot," he says in a small voice.  
  
"Do you imagine I make up these rules for my own benefit?" Father continues. His eyes are big and angry.  
  
Tristram doesn't think his father really expects an answer, but he shakes his head because he doesn't think that at all. He knows it's to protect him, just like he'd been told not to go with anyone but Doctor Watson after school, and he went with Emily's Aunt Claire and ended up in the warehouse and... Tristram's stomach twists more than a little uncomfortably. He feels absolutely wretched.  
  
His father must pick up on Tristram's discomfort - hardly surprising, that - because the lines between his eyebrows go from rigid to wrinkled, and he puts a hand on Tristram's shoulder. "Where have you-" he mutters, looking even harder at Tristram's shoes, his trousers, his jacket, sniffing near Tristram's hair, and then answers his own question: "Stable, obviously. Not hurt, yet something's upset -" He stops abruptly.  
  
For the briefest moment, an unfamiliar expression crosses his face. On someone else, Tristram might have identified it as sadness or regret, but as he's never known his father to be sad or regretful about anything, he decides it must be some kind of bewilderment. There is a wide range of things that bewilder his father, such as what the point of polyester is, why Mrs Hudson will never leave the house without putting on lipstick, or how the general populace manages to feed and clothe itself. In fact, there is rarely a day that goes by on which his father doesn't express bewilderment at something. So Tristram should definitely recognise the look. This one doesn't quite match previous iterations, but he can't assign it to anything else.  
  
It's gone as quick as it came, though, and replaced by bog standard mild annoyance. Father puts his hands on his hips and looks up at the sky, running his tongue around the inside of his lower lip. He sighs. "There is nothing wrong with what you saw John and me doing yesterday. And it has nothing to do with you. I recommend you wait for permission before opening doors from now on, however." He looks down at Tristram. "And for the record, the stable is dull and obvious. First place anyone would look. Next time, at least try and be a bit more creative. I always favoured the roof."  
  
Then he turns and walks away, his long strides easily outstripping Tristram and leaving him no choice but to run to catch up. Just before they reach the house, Tristram looks back toward the stable. The windows are all dark.

&&&&&&

  
_Chapter note: I just want to make it clear that the phrase 'crazy people' is Tristram's, not mine. I do not mean to make light of mental illness or disparage those who suffer from it. Nor do I intend to imply that the mentally ill should be classed with or treated like criminals._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

  
They leave Uncle Mycroft's car at Llanbroc and drive back to London in an old, blue compact. It smells like something's burning the whole way, and Father's knees are actually pressed up against the dash, even with the front seat pushed back as far as it will go. Doctor Watson laughs, and Tristram and Emily giggle too.  
  
Emily's happy to be going back, and Tristram's mood lifts too, the closer they get. It's almost as if the weekend didn't happen. Maybe whatever they had to go to Llanbroc for is done with. Including whatever went on between Father and Doctor Watson. They haven't touched at all this morning - Tristram's been watching closely - and when they speak to each other, it's just for practical things. Doctor Watson hasn't said Father's amazing or brilliant all morning. On the other hand, Father said Tristram should wait for permission before opening doors from now on. So he's not sure.  
  
Tristram also isn't sure which way he'd rather have it now. It's not just the kissing, but everything else too: laughing and talking and going out on cases (or dates). All things Tristram can't provide. Things that have revealed a whole new side of his father, one that he had no idea could even exist. He doesn't want his father to be unhappy. He knows it's wrong of him to think it, but it was easier before.  
  
When they get off the motorway, they take the exit closest to the part of the city where the Watsons' house is. Tristram is curious what will happen when Doctor Watson gets out of the car, because then Father will have to drive the rest of the way back to Baker Street. Tristram has never been in a car driven by his father before. He expects it will be rather exciting.  
  
But when they get to Emily's street, Doctor Watson double-parks and says, "Won't be long." He takes Emily with him and they go into Emily's aunts' house. Father continues to sit on the passenger side, engrossed in his phone.  
  
Tristram leans forward. "What are we doing?"  
  
"Waiting," Father replies, succinctly, without looking up.  
  
"Aren't we going home?"  
  
"Eventually. Surely you don't think they can continue wearing the same clothes all weekend," Father murmurs. His phone is buzzing non-stop, it seems like, with a flood of messages.  
  
Tristram sits back again. Are they going back to Llanbroc? Have they just come to London for supplies? Tristram has to pee, to be honest. They didn't stop at all on the way here. It's true that Doctor Watson did ask a couple of times if anyone needed to stop, but everyone was so eager to get back that they told him to keep driving.  
  
The more he thinks about it, the more he has to go. He's about to ask if he can go into the house and use the Watsons' toilet when Emily and her father come back. Doctor Watson has a big green duffle bag over his shoulder, and Emily has a backpack and a smaller bag in her hand.  
  
"We get to go to your house!" Emily informs Tristram excitedly when she gets back into the car.  
  
"What for?" he asks stupidly. To play? But then why would they need all that luggage? Or does she mean they're just going to stop at Tristram's house too for him to get his things before they all go back to Llanbroc? Or somewhere else?  
  
"For the rest of the weekend, maybe a couple more days," Emily says. "Isn't that cool?"  
  
"It'll be like a bivouac." Doctor Watson grins over his shoulder as he buckles up and turns the engine on again.  
  
"We can build a tent in your room and pretend we're in the army," Emily suggests. "I brought my compass and army kit. We can go on recon missions."  
  
That actually does sound like fun. However, he is suspicious of the reason for it. Why would both Emily and her father need to stay at their flat? He'd almost think it's a ploy for Father and Doctor Watson to share a bed some more, but they still aren't saying more than necessary to each other, and when they get to their flat, Father brings out some bedding and drops it on the couch for Emily's father. Tristram is a little relieved about that, but it makes him wonder even more what the purpose of the visit is.  
  
Father then proceeds to thump around in his room for a bit while Tristram and Emily go upstairs and help Doctor Watson drag a field bed down from the crawlspace. It's rather battered and smells like damp, but Doctor Watson is quite taken with it, pronouncing it a genuine relic from the war. Tristram knows he means World War Two, even though there have been lots of other wars since. It's funny how people talk about that one as if it were the only one, or at least the only one that counted, even though there's hardly anyone left who was alive then. Even Mrs Hudson wasn't born yet. Grandmother was, but she says mostly what she remembers is afterwards, when they could finally, finally have all the sweets they wanted.  
  
They set the bed up in Tristram's room, and then Doctor Watson goes back downstairs. Emily, on the other hand, is immediately fascinated by his collection of small animal skulls and bones. He gets most of them from owl pellets passed on to him by a man at the London Zoo whom his father must have helped out once. Once, he got an entire iguana that had died of natural causes, but Tristram made a mess of taking it apart and felt sorry afterwards and asked only to be given things that were already skeletal from then on.  
  
Tristram gives Emily a pair of tweezers, a dental pick, and the jar of owl pellets he hasn't had a chance to pull apart yet. He coaches her through opening up the first one and shares in her excitement at the tiny bone fragments she teases out of the tight, felt-like clump.  
  
"Your house is so cool," she comments as she arranges the bits of skeleton on the newspaper they've laid out on Tristram's desk, trying to see how they might fit together.  
  
Tristram's not sure what to say to that, so he shrugs. "It's okay." It's true he's rarely, if ever, bored, a complaint many of their schoolmates often voice.  
  
"Your grandmother's too. Do you think we can go again? We left so fast. You should have come to get me this morning."  
  
"I thought you were still asleep."  
  
"I was," she says. "But you could have woken me up. I would have liked to see the stable one more time."  
  
"There were mice," he offers.  
  
Her face lights up and she looks up from the pellet. "Really?"  
  
He nods. "A mother and three babies. I fed them cake," he adds proudly, then remembers his promise not to tell about seeing the bodyguard. Surely Emily doesn't count, though. She can't get the man in trouble. Still, better not to mention it. It's not like it matters.  
  
Emily's face falls into a pout. "Aw, now I really want to see. They'd better still be there next time. Maybe we can go next weekend." She returns to poking at the pellet.  
  
"Maybe," Tristram says. "I think my father finished whatever he needed to go there for, though."  
  
Emily's sits up straight, her eyes big. "Did he catch the bogeyman?"  
  
Tristram bites his lip. "I don't know. I don't know that's what we went for," he points out. "I was just guessing. Maybe it was something else." Something else altogether. The guilt flares up again about keeping the kissing a secret, only now it's an even bigger secret. Not just kissing, but lying on top of each other on the bed without their shirts.  
  
"What?" Emily prompts him.  
  
Tristram shakes his head. He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to revisit the kiss on the beach or the kiss-and-more in the bedroom. "I don't know," is all he can say.  
  
Emily isn't satisfied, but goes back to working on picking more bones out of the pellet. Tristram wants to ask her more. He wants to know if her father told her why they're staying at Tristram's flat. He wants to know if her father told her about the kisses. On the whole, he thinks not, because it's exactly the kind of thing she'd want to talk about with Tristram. Unless her father told her to keep it secret for some reason.  
  
"Where did your father sleep last night?" he asks, when he can't hold it in any longer. It's an innocent enough question. Sort of.  
  
Emily frowns. "In bed; what do you mean?"  
  
"Nothing," Tristram says, thinking quickly to come up with a reason for asking that isn't the real reason. "I was just wondering if he kept you up snoring."  
  
Her face clears. "Well, not all night. A bit. But I don't mind." She grins. "I just push him until he rolls over, then he stops."  
  
Tristram nods and smiles too. At least that bit's clear then.  
  
When she's satisfied she's found all the bones in the pellet, Emily announces she's hungry. Tristram realises he is, too; he hasn't had anything since the chocolate milk that morning. It seems ages ago now. They go downstairs to see if there's any chance of lunch being had.  
  
"Where's my dad?" is the first thing Emily asks when they see Tristram's father sitting in front of his computer at his desk but no sign of Doctor Watson.  
  
"Shopping," he answers absently.  
  
"When's he coming back?"  
  
"When he's completed his purchases, no doubt."  
  
"I could make us some toast," Tristram offers Emily, seeing that the conversation isn't going to bring satisfaction to either side.  
  
"No bread," his father mentions. He glances at Emily and Tristram, then sighs and takes out his phone. He types something quickly, then sets it down while he continues scrolling through something on his laptop.  
  
Tristram goes into the kitchen anyway to see if there's anything edible. He can tell Emily's edgy about her father.  
  
About thirty seconds later, Father's phone pings. He checks it and announces, "Ten minutes," then returns his focus to his own task.  
  
"What in the world are you eating?" Doctor Watson asks when he returns a short while later with two plastic bags full of shopping. He sets the bags down on the counter in the kitchen and peers at the goop on Tristram and Emily's plates.  
  
"Beans with jam," Emily tells him happily.  
  
Doctor Watson makes a face. It's quite good, actually. They warmed it up in the microwave, which made the jam go all melty. That was Emily's idea.  
  
"Sherlock," Doctor Watson calls into the living room, "what are you doing letting them eat this? You knew I was going out to get food."  
  
Tristram wonders why he's asking Father, since Tristram was the one who made the food. Tristram also knew Doctor Watson went out to do the shopping. He was hungry, though, and didn't want to wait. He's used to fixing food for himself. Father didn't even register what they were doing. Just like now: he's effectively ignoring what's going on in the kitchen.  
  
"Busy," Father mumbles.  
  
Doctor Watson goes into the living room. "And here's your key, by the way." He sets a key down on the desk next to Father.  
  
That gets his attention. Father blinks down at the key, then shoves it back in Doctor Watson's direction. "Keep it."  
  
When Doctor Watson doesn't take it right away, Father looks up at him. They stare at each other for a few seconds. Tristram stops with a forkful of beans halfway to his mouth and watches them. Finally, Doctor Watson slowly slides the key off the desk into his hand.  
  
"Just for the weekend," he says. It sounds like a warning.  
  
"Yes, fine," Father says and returns to his project. He says it in the way that means he knows he's won. Tristram wonders whether Doctor Watson knows that yet.  
  
Tristram glances at Emily. She's wiping her finger through the last of the jammy bean sauce on her plate and doesn't seem to have noticed anything.  
  


&&&&&&

  
Doctor Watson knocks on the door frame. "Hey, Tris. Mind if I talk to you for a minute?"  
  
Tristram shrugs and scoots back on his bed. He's already in his pyjamas. Emily's in the bathroom getting ready for bed. Doctor Watson comes in and sits down on the opposite side.  
  
"It's really very nice of you to let Emily stay up here with you. I know we didn't exactly ask."  
  
Tristram shrugs again. It's not like anyone's ever asked his opinion before about things that happen to him. And really, he doesn't mind Emily being here. In fact, he likes it. It's proof that she's his friend. "I don't mind," he says.  
  
"Because we can put the field bed down in the living room," Doctor Watson offers. "It's not a problem."  
  
"No, it's fine." Truth be told, if Doctor Watson and Emily are going to be here anyway, Tristram would rather have someone up here with him, rather than everyone else together downstairs and him up here alone.  
  
"All right. Good. But you'll let me or your father know if you're unhappy about something."  
  
"Okay," Tristram answers automatically, although it doesn't really matter whether he's happy or unhappy about something. It's going to happen either way.  
  
"Because that's what's most important," Doctor Watson continues. "I don't want you ever to feel unhappy or uncomfortable in your own home because of me and Emily."  
  
"I'm not." Not about Emily, anyway. And not really about Doctor Watson, either. He wouldn't mind at all, in fact he'd think it was pretty cool to have Emily's father staying over, if the whole last-night-thing hadn't happened. And the beach. But maybe that's over now. Maybe Tristram walking in on them made them decide not to … do that anymore. It's an uncomfortable thought. Uncomfortable either way. Because if they stopped, and it's because of Tristram... Shouldn't he be happier if he's got his way?  
  
"That's good," Doctor Watson says, sounding about as convinced as Tristram is. "I just had the feeling... And I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but I think it's important."  
  
Tristram stares hard at a spot on the cover. It's irregular, and tinged purple. Phenylphthalamine? Did he have any up here?  
  
"Tris?" Doctor Watson touches Tristram's foot. His hand is warm. All of a sudden, Tristram feels tears coming on. He fights them back and concentrates on the spot.  
  
"Look, this is all..." Doctor Watson trails off before trying a different approach. "It's a bit new for me too. I'm not sure what to think either. But what you saw..."  
  
Tristram tries very hard to close his ears without actually putting his hands over them. He can close his nose from the inside, and he can close his eyes without using his hands. Why isn't it possible to close your ears?  
  
"Tris, this is important." Doctor Watson's hand is still there. He shakes Tristram's foot a little, as if he thinks Tristram isn't paying attention. "There wasn't anything wrong with what you saw, with me and your dad. I reacted the way I did because I was surprised. I wasn't expecting you to come in and I was startled, that's all. It's just that usually, when two adults are affectionate with each other, they wait until they're pretty sure they'll be alone. So that's what was going on. But your dad was right, you absolutely did the right thing coming in, and you should always feel okay about going to him if you think something's wrong, or if you don't feel well. Always. Okay?"  
  
Tristram nods and whispers, "Okay." He fervently hopes that Doctor Watson is done talking about it. Although it does, strangely, make him feel a little better to have the explanation. Affectionate. That actually sounds nice, not like the crude words the other kids snigger over, or the clinical, mechanical-sounding terms Uncle Mycroft used when he explained what married people do. Only Father and Doctor Watson aren't married. Are they?  
  
"Okay," Doctor Watson says. He squeezes Tristram's foot, then lets go and sits back a bit. He seems relieved too. "Was there anything else? Anything you wanted to ask about? About your father and me, or anything else?"  
  
Tristram is about to say no, but this might be the only time Doctor Watson makes the offer, and thus the only chance he has to get a direct answer. It doesn't really matter; it's not as if he would be affected if it is true. But it would go a long way toward explaining much of what's been going on the past few weeks, and especially this weekend. "Are you married?" he asks, so quietly it's barely even a whisper.  
  
Doctor Watson leans forward a bit. "Sorry, what?"  
  
Tristram tries again, because now it's out, and he wants to know. "You and my father? Did you get married?"  
  
Doctor Watson's eyes get so big Tristram can see the whites all the way round. "Oh my G- No, we did not get married, is that what you- " He shakes his head back and forth. A lot. "No, Tris. Your father and I are not married. Not that it wouldn't- But no. No. Two people don't always get married first before they kiss, and other things," Doctor Watson explains. "Sometimes they like to kiss and hug a bit first, to see if they really like the other person. Not that we're even _thinking_ of- Jesus, right, sorry. Tris, if your father and I were ever to decide to take a step like that - not that it is even remotely a topic of discussion - you would definitely know about it well in advance. Well, well in advance. You would be the first person to know about it. You and Emily. Okay?"  
  
Tristram nods. He thinks he actually believes Doctor Watson, too, but now he feels incredibly silly. Of course they didn't get married! Tristram doesn't know now how he even considered it a possibility.  
  
"Okay. Anything else?" It looks like Doctor Watson's holding his breath.  
  
Tristram shakes his head.  
  
Doctor Watson smiles and lets out a big sigh. "Thank God. You just about gave me a heart attack with that one." Tristram's pretty sure he's teasing, although his alarm did seem real. "But really, Tris, anything. Any time."  
  
Emily reappears just then, freshly washed, and climbs onto the field bed. It creaks. She bounces around to make it creak even more, grinning at Tristram and her father. "Can you help us make a tent?"  
  
"Sure," Doctor Watson agrees. He slaps his thighs and stands up to go and fetch some sheets.  
  
By the time he comes back, Emily and Tristram have re-arranged the furniture so the two beds are right next to each other. That way both of them will be inside the tent. They try various configurations of draping the sheets over pieces of furniture and stretching them over the beds, but it's always either too low or too unstable. Finally, Doctor Watson asks Tristram for a hammer and nails, then proceeds to handily anchor two sheets to the ceiling so they hang down on either side of the beds. By pulling them together over the feet of the beds, they create a kind of teepee they can easily sit up in, even Doctor Watson. Tristram hands him _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ , which somehow made it back from Llanbroc even though he didn't pack his own bag. Before he can start reading, Emily insists they turn out the lights and fetch their torches so it's more like a real camp-out. Emily has one in the bag she brought with her, but Tristram has to go downstairs to get one from the kitchen.  
  
His father is still at his desk, illuminated by the glow from his computer screen. All the other lights are off. He's been there all afternoon and evening now, including right through dinner. Doctor Watson made them spaghetti. That's what they had for dinner at the Watsons', too, last week. Was it only last week? It seems so long ago.  
  
Tristram turns the light on in the kitchen and looks through drawers until he comes up with a torch that has working batteries. He pauses in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.  
  
"We made a tent," he says.  
  
His father grunts.  
  
"Do you want to come see it?" He doesn't know what makes him ask. He knows Father's going to say-  
  
"Busy."  
  
That. Tristram waits a little longer, long enough that his bare feet start to get chilled. As he turns to leave again, his father sits up straight and looks at Tristram as if he's just noticed him standing there.  
  
"Tristram."  
  
Tristram stops and turns around.  
  
"Come here." His father swivels sideways in his chair to face him. It's the first time he's changed position in over eight hours, by Tristram's reckoning. Tristram goes over to stand next to the desk. His father puts his hands on Tristram's shoulders. That means what he's about to say is very important.  
  
"I've told you this before, but I want to reiterate it so it's clear nothing's changed just because we're back here. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, I want you to come and tell me right away."  
  
"Okay," Tristram agrees. "And if the door's closed, I'll wait until you answer before I open it."  
  
His father doesn't say anything at first. Tristram thinks he's made a mistake, but that was what he said this morning, he's sure of it. After a few seconds, though, Father inhales deeply through his nose and says, "Yes, that might be best. Although I'll be working here all night, so it will hardly come up." It looks like he's about to say something else, but thinks better of it. "Right. Good night, then." He puts one hand against the back of Tristram's head and rubs his fingers back and forth a couple of times.  
  
Tristram smiles. It's almost like a bear hug, by his father's standards. "Good night, Father."  
  
Father smiles back, a small one, but his eyes crinkle, and Tristram's heart swells. Then he goes back upstairs to Emily and Doctor Watson.

&&&&&&

  
"John, go sleep in my room." Sherlock glances over at John trying to find a comfortable position on the couch.  
  
John shuffles his shoulders against the pillow. He's lying on his back with his feet toward the door so he has a clear view of both the door to the outer hall and the passage to the kitchen. "I'm fine here."  
  
"I'm going to be working all night. I'll be making some phone calls."  
  
"Won't bother me," John assures him. Then he cranes his neck around to look at Sherlock, who's still sitting at his desk. "Unless you'd prefer to have some privacy?"  
  
"It's not that."  
  
"Don't worry about me, then." He settles back in his original position.  
  
Sherlock doesn't say anything for a bit. John's eyes are still open, watching the door.  
  
Sherlock breaks the silence: "That couch isn't going to do your shoulder any favours."  
  
John lets out a long breath and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. Then he turns onto his side, propping his head up on one hand so he can see Sherlock. "Look. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I would rather not have my daughter - or your son, for that matter - see me stumble half-dressed out of your bedroom first thing in the morning. Even if nothing..." He stops and looks around again, then says, "I keep thinking of how Tristram reacted."  
  
"He's fine. I talked to him," Sherlock says stiffly.  
  
John's eyebrows pop up. "You did?"  
  
"Yes." Sherlock looks defensive.  
  
"Good. I mean, yeah, that's good. But um... What exactly did you say to him? Because I talked to him, too, and he seemed a bit confused."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"He thought we'd got married."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Yeah," John says, laughing a bit. "He asked whether we'd got married."  
  
Sherlock pulls a face. "What in the world gave him that idea?"  
  
"So you didn't say anything like that to him?"  
  
"Certainly not! I simply told him it was perfectly natural and didn't concern him."  
  
John takes a moment to digest that. "Right. Okay," he says carefully. "Only, it does concern him."  
  
"I don't see how."  
  
"He's your son. You're his father. If you get … involved … with someone, it affects him."  
  
"We are not 'involved'," Sherlock says, as if the notion is distasteful.  
  
John's expression turns suddenly cool. "No, right, I forgot that. So, never mind." John flops onto his back again and pulls the quilt up over him. "Good night." He deliberately closes his eyes, and turns his head toward the back of the couch for good measure.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

  
When Tristram wakes up, his heart gives a little jolt when he can't see anything but a vague grey veil, like a fog, hovering around him. Is he still at Llanbroc? He feels under his pillow. His phone isn't there. He sits bolt upright and throws his bedclothes around looking for it.  
  
Something moans slightly next to him. Emily. He hears the antique joints of the field bed creak as she turns over. "Daddy?" she says in a sleepy voice.  
  
Tristram's heart is still racing, but he knows where he is now. The grey veil is their tent. They're in his room at home. And he can't find his phone because he didn't put it under his pillow last night. He left it on the desk to charge.  
  
Tristram hears Emily moving around some more. He can't really see her, but he fancies the darker shape silhouetted against the sheet is her sitting up.  
  
"Sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you."  
  
"What time is it?" she asks. Her voice sounds creaky, like her bed.  
  
Tristram checks the digital clock on his nightstand. "Five fifty-three."  
  
"Okay." Emily lifts the sheet on her side. Tristram can see his desk and part of the window in the light coming in from the street lamps outside, which is comforting. Emily ducks under the sheet and gets out of bed.  
  
"Where are you going?" Tristram asks, still whispering.  
  
"Downstairs."  
  
"To do what?"  
  
"See where my dad is." Tristram hears her walk across the room.  
  
He crawls to the foot of the bed and lifts the sheet. Emily is already standing by the door. He gives up the pretense of trying to keep his voice down. "He's probably asleep," he points out. Although where, is an interesting question. One that Tristram isn't sure he wants to know the answer to.  
  
It doesn't seem to be any sort of disincentive to Emily to follow through on her plan, at any rate. She opens the door and goes out. Tristram sighs and scrambles to follow her, not even taking time to put on socks. The floor is freezing. He catches up with her on the stairs. She's taking them slowly, maybe because she's trying to be quiet or maybe just because she's not familiar with them in the dark.  
  
The door to the living room is closed, but the one leading into the kitchen is open, and they can see that the lights are off. They go through that one, Tristram taking the lead. There's enough light coming in from the street for them to orient themselves. A quick glance to the left shows the door to Father's room is open, so he's probably not in there. Ergo, Doctor Watson is also probably not in there. Tristram begins to breathe easier. Also, now he can hear the sound of snoring coming from the living room.  
  
"He's in there," Tristram says to Emily in a low voice.  
  
From where he's standing in the kitchen, he can see Father's computer standing open on the desk, but Father isn't sitting in front of it. He must be out. That's nothing new. He's often out when Tristram wakes up. He always leaves a note, though, so that Tristram knows he left on purpose and of his own free will. Tristram turns on the kitchen light and checks the table. There's no note, which is a bit disquieting, but maybe Father figured as long as Doctor Watson was here, he didn't need to let Tristram know where he was. Doctor Watson certainly wouldn't have let Father be incapacitated or kidnapped right under his nose while he slept on. Probably not. Tristram is suddenly in rather a hurry to have Doctor Watson wake up so he can ask him. He goes into the living room, Emily on his heels, and freezes.  
  
In the light spilling into the room from the kitchen, the tableau is all too clear. Doctor Watson is curled up on his side, sound asleep under a quilt on the couch. Father is sitting on the floor next to him, his upper body resting on the couch in the space in front of Doctor Watson's chest, his head cushioned on his arms. He also appears to be asleep. One of Doctor Watson's hands is curved around Father's shoulder. Tristram immediately feels that they are intruding on something, and that it would be best for them to go back upstairs.  
  
It's not like when he walked in on them at Llanbroc, though. This time, it's more that there's a sense of quiet and peace, of comfort and acceptance, and Tristram feels momentarily and deeply guilty that he didn't want his father to have this. Although Tristram knows for a fact the narrow couch isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, and he imagines Father's feet must be freezing and his back stiff the way he's slumped over with nothing more than his dressing gown covering him, they both look as if there's no place else they'd rather be, nor any other place they belong.  
  
Emily doesn't appear affected by the scene one way or the other, though, which is a bit odd, since she was the one who was so enthusiastically speculating about their relationship earlier. She goes straight over to the couch, reaches over Father, and shakes her own father's shoulder. "Daddy?"  
  
Doctor Watson stirs and turns a bit. His hand slips off Father's shoulder. Father lifts his head.  
  
"Hey Em?" Doctor Watson says softly. "Everything all right?"  
  
"I couldn't sleep anymore," she tells him, trying to insinuate herself into the space where Father is.  
  
Father slides away and stands up. Emily snuggles up to her father.  
  
"Sherlock?" Doctor Watson sounds surprised, as if he didn't notice him there before. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, keeping one arm around Emily. "What were you doing down there? Did you sleep there?"  
  
Father goes down the hall to his room and closes the door.  
  
Doctor Watson stares after him, then looks at Tristram, who is still hovering in the middle of the room. "Was he sleeping on the floor?" he asks.  
  
"He was lying on the couch next to you," Emily tells him matter-of-factly.  
  
"Why didn't he just go to bed, the idiot?" Doctor Watson grumbles. Tristram knows that's what's called a rhetorical question and he's not actually meant to come up with a response. However, he does because he thinks he might actually know the answer.  
  
"He prefers sleeping on the couch," Tristram tells him.  
  
"He could have had the couch, I wouldn't-" Doctor Watson squeezes his eyes shut. "Oh my God, no, I'm the idiot. He did, he tried to make me take his bed, and I thought it was because-" He stops speaking abruptly and cracks his eyes open, keeping one carefully on Tristram. "Sherlock!" he shouts down the hall. "You could have said you wanted to sleep on the couch!"  
  
There is no response. Doctor Watson yawns heavily, then blinks down at Emily. "I guess we're up."  
  


&&&&&&

  
The three of them are already tucking into the breakfast Doctor Watson makes for them - toast, scrambled eggs, rashers, and orange juice - by the time Tristram's father finally comes out, showered and dressed. He reaches around Tristram to grab a piece of toast from what's left of the pile on the serving plate.  
  
"There's still some hot water, if you'd like tea," Doctor Watson offers. "Tris and I weren't sure about the coffee maker. He said you'd used it to do something with industrial sewage?"  
  
"Mm, interesting case, actually." Father crams the toast into his mouth, takes another, and goes to the desk in the living room.  
  
Doctor Watson gets up and follows him. "What's the plan for today, then?"  
  
"Mycroft," Father says bitterly, "is holding my coat hostage. I'm to pick it up in person. No doubt he'll want a full report."  
  
"I think that's only fair," Doctor Watson says. "I have to be at the hospital for the afternoon shift. It shouldn't take all morning to fill your brother in, though. When do you want to go?"  
  
"Now. There are some other people I need to talk to as well." Father picks up some notes that are lying on the desk and stuffs them into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.  
  
"Hold on, at least let the kids finish their breakfast."  
  
"Why? They're staying here with you."  
  
"Oh. Right. Because I wouldn't have anything useful to add to the report." Doctor Watson says it in a way that means he thinks the exact opposite.  
  
Father, though, seems to take the statement at face value and agrees: "No, you wouldn't. And would you have Tristram and your daughter come along as well? Maybe they'd like to hear what Moran's people are doing to track his killer?"  
  
Tristram and Emily look at each other, eyes wide. A killer! But it doesn't sound like it has anything to do with Emily's Aunt Claire. Tristram has never heard the name Moran mentioned before. It must be a new case.  
  
"What the hell are you playing at!" Doctor Watson growls. He sounds genuinely angry. Tristram's stomach twists unpleasantly. He puts down his fork.  
  
"Exactly," Father says archly. "I'm glad to see we're in agreement then. You'll probably want to cancel your shift this afternoon as well."  
  
"That's my job, Sherlock. I already called in pleading a family emergency the past three days."  
  
"Tell them it's not done yet. Or quit. I don't really care." He walks past Doctor Watson to the door, where Tristram can't see him anymore.  
  
Doctor Watson's mouth goes flat. "No, I'll just... I'll take Emily and Tris to my sister's if you're not back." He's not speaking as loud now, although his voice is still tense.  
  
Tristram's father steps back into the middle of the living room. He stands very close to Doctor Watson, all but looming over him. "John," he says in a very intense voice, but quiet; so quiet Tristram almost doesn't hear him. He does hear him, though. "I don't think I need to remind you the calibre of criminals we are dealing with. Two middle-aged women armed with a red pen and a bottle of Merlot are hardly going to put them off. If in fact they haven't been compromised already. Your sisters-in-law do seem to have rather loose moral standards." He steps back again.  
  
Doctor Watson's whole body is rigid, and his face has that terrible look that makes Tristram want to slink away and hide. "That was so far over the line-"  
  
"I'll text you any new developments," Father says crisply. Tristram hears him open the door, then go quickly down the stairs.  
  
Tristram stares down at the remains of his sausage lying in a puddle of congealing yellow grease.  
  
"Who's Moran?" Emily pipes up into the ringing silence. "Is he dead?"  
  
"He wasn't a very nice man, and yes," Doctor Watson says, still staring after Tristram's father. "Yes, I'm afraid he is."  
  


&&&&&&

  
Doctor Watson says he needs to get out, even though it's raining and so cold you can see your breath, so they all bundle up against the weather and go to the playground in Regent's Park. On top of the rain, it's Sunday, and barely eight o'clock, so there's no one there aside from a couple of hardy dog walkers passing briskly by with their heads down and their collars turned up. Mrs Hudson used to take Tristram to the playground a lot when he was little, but there's something awkward and lonely about going to the park at his age without another child to play with, so they haven't been in a long time. In fact, it's been so long that he's interested to see it's been completely refurbished, with new climbing frames and landscapes.  
  
Doctor Watson sits out of the rain under the shelter of one of the play structures and keeps an eye on Tristram and Emily as they explore the tunnels and rocks and climbing nets. After a while, they run back to Emily's father and ask him to play a game with them. Well, Emily does. It would never have occurred to Tristram, but apparently, like hugs and reading books together at bedtime, playing together is something the Watsons do. So Doctor Watson gathers himself up and leads Tristram and Emily out on missions like extracting a wounded soldier from behind enemy lines or patrolling the perimeter or retrieving an airdropped delivery that's caught halfway up a tree. Instead of guns, they have wands. Tristram finds a rather nice stick to use that actually looks like a wand, nice and smooth and straight.  
  
When their hands are finally numb and the knees and hems of their trousers are soaked through, Doctor Watson takes them to the nearby cafe, which is open now, and buys them each a bun and a hot chocolate. Doctor Watson sets his phone on the table next to him and spends nearly the entire time staring at it balefully, as if he could will it to ring by the sheer force of his gaze. When Tristram and Emily finish their snack, it's still raining, and Emily wants to change her wet socks, so they go back home.  
  
Tristram follows Emily up to his room. He wants to get some dry clothes, too. Emily takes her bag under the tent on the beds to change, while Tristram quickly pulls on a clean pair of trousers and some socks.  
  
"Is your dad going to be back soon?" she asks from behind the sheet.  
  
"I don't know," Tristram tells her.  
  
She pulls the sheet back. She has a thoughtful, worried look on her face. "I don't think he should have gone out alone to find those killers."  
  
"He always goes alone. Usually, anyway. Sometimes he goes with the police." Tristram climbs up onto the bed next to her. "But he always comes back." He was going to say, 'He always comes back fine,' but that's not true. He's not sure why he wants to reassure her. It's not her father, after all.  
  
"My dad went with him the last time," she says, as if this is a counter-argument.  
  
Tristram thinks back to what Uncle Mycroft said when they asked him what their fathers were doing that night. "My Uncle Mycroft said it wasn't exactly a case," he recalls. "Just some business." He wonders now what exactly Uncle Mycroft meant with 'business'. Monkey business. Funny business. Tricky business. He's learned that his uncle has a way of using words that allow him to say one thing while meaning quite another. None of your business.  
  
"They went together... that time, too," she presses on.  
  
Tristram knows what time she means. Friday Afternoon. He remembers Doctor Watson's hands on his shoulders, firm and calm, while Father worked to free him from the ropes binding him to the chair. He doesn't know what might have happened if Emily's father hadn't been there. He likes to think his father would still have got him out safely, but maybe Tristram would have done or said something to distract him, or squirmed so much he tightened the ropes further, or even set off the … device.  
  
It wasn't a bomb, he reminds himself. They'd only wanted to scare Tristram, not kill him. The man who tied him up wanted him to tell his father to do something else with his life, meaning not to investigate crimes. Obviously his father's not about to stop working on cases. Tristram wonders if it's all somehow connected to the Moran his father mentioned this morning. But then it would also be connected to Emily's Aunt Claire, and her mother's murder.  
  
"And this weekend." Emily breaks into Tristram's thoughts. "He took my dad along this weekend too, to help keep us safe. And I think that's why we're staying with you here."  
  
This would be the perfect time to let Emily in on the secret he's been carrying around about their fathers, but on the other hand, what she's saying makes sense, too. More sense than all that getting married nonsense Tristram somehow concocted. But it would mean that whatever was going on Thursday night, whatever made his father feel threatened enough to flee to the countryside with bodyguards, wasn't past. On the other hand, they're back here now, so whatever danger there was - or is - can't be all that acute.  
  
"Your dad couldn't go with him this time," Tristram points out, having decided there's no need to mention the kissing after all. "He had to stay with us."  
  
"Then your dad shouldn't have gone out either," Emily insists stubbornly.  
  
Tristram's flattered, somehow, that Emily wants his father to be safe. At the same time, even though he's aware there are dangers and uncertainties, and that his life is affected too, he would never ask his father to stop doing what he does. There are very bad people out there who hurt other people, and the work his father does helps keep not just them, but everyone safe.  
  
"We can't hide for the rest of our lives," Tristram tells her quietly.  
  
She looks at him unhappily. "I know. How do you stand it, though?"  
  
"I don't think about it, mostly," he says with an attempt at a smile. Mostly. Which means he never explicitly dwells on it, but it's always there, a yawning, shadowy nebula surrounding his entire mind space, like whatever it is that extends beyond the furthest reaches of what Tristram imagines when he tries to picture the infinity of the universe.  
  


&&&&&&

  
After lunch - fish fingers and mash - Tristram and Emily are about to go upstairs to work some more on their time machine, which Emily brought with her, when they hear the door open downstairs. Doctor Watson goes out into the hall, but Tristram knows even before he says anything that it's his father. His footfalls are unmistakable, and they are firm and quick on the stairs, which makes Tristram feel better right away.  
  
"I thought you'd be out all day," Doctor Watson says with some surprise, but also with some caution.  
  
"Useless," Father says as he breezes in, pulling his gloves off. He has his old coat back, and he leaves it on as he drops down onto one of the armchairs, scowling.  
  
"Things not go well with Mycroft, then?" Doctor Watson sits down in the armchair opposite him, tentative but persistent.  
  
Father shakes his head sharply. "He was tedious but quickly dispatched. I spent most of the morning trying to track down a witness I wanted to talk to. Turns out she had a bit of an accident."  
  
Doctor Watson sits up a bit straighter. "An accident?"  
  
Father makes a lazy, dismissive gesture. "Not related. Simply the risks of sleeping rough. It was rather nasty, though, I gather. She's in hospital somewhere... I'll find out where this afternoon, then go pay her a visit tonight after you're back."  
  
"After I'm back? Where am I going?" Doctor Watson sounds both curious and suspicious.  
  
"I thought you had a job to be at," Father drawls. "Something about being fired if you didn't show up."  
  
Doctor Watson's eyebrows jump up. "Oh! I've already called in. They weren't happy, but it's not my third strike, so... But if you don't mind..." He sits forward on the chair, about to stand up.  
  
Father flaps at him with the gloves he's still holding in one hand. "Go on. She'll probably be in surgery or something dull all day anyway."  
  
Doctor Watson is already reaching for his jacket. "I won't be back until after ten. Visiting hours will be over by then."  
  
Father gives him a look that means he can't be bothered with things like visiting hours.  
  
Doctor Watson grins. "All right, then. Thank you. Um... There are some chicken nuggets and chips in the freezer you can make for dinner," he says as he puts on his jacket, "and we were already out this morning, so-"  
  
"John, surprisingly, this won't be the first time I've been on my own with a child."  
  
"Right, no, I didn't mean-"  
  
"Good-bye," Father says pointedly, but he sounds amused.  
  
Doctor Watson darts over to the couch and gives Emily a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. "I'm just going to the hospital. I'll pop up and check on you when I get home, but you'd better be in bed." Tristram can tell he means it, but he doesn't say it in a threatening way. More like a comforting promise. Then, although he hesitates a moment, he smiles and hugs Tristram too. "Bye, Tris."  
  
"Bye," Tristram responds automatically, startled into immobility. At least Doctor Watson didn't kiss him.  
  
"Is he always like that?" Father asks the room at large once the downstairs door has closed behind Doctor Watson. He sounds bemused.  
  
"Yes," Emily answers frankly. She gets off the couch and goes over to plant herself in front of Father. "Do you have any severed feet?"  
  
There aren't any in the house at the moment, but to Tristram's surprise and delight, Father sets up his microscope on the kitchen table and gets out a box of empty slides. Tristram's allowed to use Father's microscope whenever he wants, of course, as long as Father isn't using it, but today, Father doesn't just get the equipment out and leave them to it. He helps them mount samples of their hair, saliva, snot (Emily's idea), epithelial cells from the inside of their cheeks, even blood from finger pricks, and view them at various magnifications. Tristram has the idea to get out a notebook and write everything down, noting the differences between their samples, and Emily makes some quite decent drawings to illustrate the notes.  
  
Father wanders off at some point, but comes back after not too long with a set of slides in a slotted box. He tells them they are cross-sections of a mouse brain. Emily is delightfully disgusted. Tristram is deeply grateful. He doesn't know if his father is actually trying to make a good impression or balance the games that Doctor Watson played with them that morning (can he somehow tell where they went and what they did?), or if he's taken a genuine interest in the activity. Either way, Tristram can tell that Emily is thoroughly taken with him, which makes Tristram feel like reveling in a bit of reflected glory.  
  
Mrs Hudson drops by later on with a plate of fresh-baked scones. She is duly introduced to Emily, whom she fawns over thoroughly. While Tristram and Emily sit in the kitchen slathering the pastries with what's left of the jam, Father speaks to Mrs Hudson in the living room. Tristram hears him mention that Doctor Watson may be coming in late tonight, and she shouldn't worry if she hears the door go.  
  
"If I were to worry every time that door opens in the dead of night, I'd worry myself into an early grave," she assures him. "But now, you didn't tell me you had a gentleman friend," she teases him. "You sly man. And with a little girl too, that will be good for Tristram."  
  
"He's just helping me with a case."  
  
That is a blatant misrepresentation. It might have started out that way, but even Tristram knows it's gone far beyond that now. He wonders why his father denies it. He and Doctor Watson haven't been particularly careful about hiding their... affection, Tristram thinks the word shyly to himself, as if by acknowledging that's what it is somehow makes it more real.  
  
"What a shame," Mrs Hudson tuts. "Well, you know what they say: great oaks from little acorns. It's still lovely that Tristram has someone to play with now." She turns and beams at the children. "You two feel free to come downstairs any time. We can play Snap. I have a feeling it will be much more fun with three than it is with two."  
  
"Mrs Hudson's the one who taught me to play," Tristram informs Emily.  
  
She smiles at Mrs Hudson with jam-smeared lips. "Okay."  
  
"Mind the two of you wash your fingers before you come down. We wouldn't want the cards sticking together."  
  
They do go downstairs a short while later - hands and faces duly washed - and Mrs Hudson's right: it is more fun with three. After they've played several rounds, Emily asks her if she knows any more card games. Mrs Hudson thinks for a moment, shuffling the cards as she does. Tristram is fascinated by the way she riffles them over and through each other in a way that looks like a falling bridge. She's tried to show him how to do it, but he can never get his hands to cooperate. The cards invariably end up splattering all over the table.  
  
She finally settles on a game whose real name, she says, is a word she shouldn't be repeating to them, but they'll call it 'Not Likely'. The idea is that all the cards are distributed amongst the players, and the first person lays down up to four cards, face-down on the table, and announces that they are aces. You don't get to turn them over to check. The next person lays down between one and four cards, face-down, and says they are kings. The next person has queens, and so on. The other players have to decide whether they are bluffing or not. If they think the person is lying, they say, 'Not likely', and they turn over the cards to check what they really were. If the person was telling the truth, whoever spoke up has to take all the cards on the table. If the person who laid the cards was lying, then they have to take the pile. The first person to get rid of all their cards wins.  
  
It's not as fast and physical as Snap, but Tristram finds it more exciting. Emily is a stunningly poor liar but very good at catching Tristram's bluffs. Mrs Hudson is next to impossible to read, but rarely doubts Emily or Tristram. In the end, they are fairly evenly matched, and it's only due to an extreme stroke of luck that Tristram is able to play out his last card, a five, when it really is his turn to lay fives. Emily bites her lip, obviously loath to let it go without speaking up, but not sure whether Tristram is lying or not. Before she can say anything, though, Mrs Hudson says, 'Not likely,' and then they all laugh when she turns the card over and it turns out Tristram was telling the truth.  
  
Mrs Hudson offers to make dinner for them, but Emily wants the chicken nuggets that are waiting upstairs, so they are sent back up with two more scones wrapped up in plastic for Emily's father when he gets home later.  
  
Father is snarling at something on his phone when they come in and doesn't even look up, but Tristram didn't expect he'd prepare dinner for them anyway. Chicken nuggets and oven chips are well within Tristram's capabilities.  
  
After they've eaten and put their dishes in the sink - Tristram hoping guiltily that Mrs Hudson will come up later to wash up for them - they settle on the couch and turn on the television. Father has moved to one of the armchairs, where he's sprawled out behind a newspaper. He lowers one corner of the paper to glance at the screen as Tristram flicks through the channels, snorts, and buries himself in his reading again.  
  
"Does your dad let you watch whatever you want?" Emily whispers in Tristram's ear.  
  
Tristram shrugs. "Sure." Not that Tristram generally has much interest in watching telly. He's outgrown the kiddy series and cartoons, and most of the rest is boring. He tried, for a couple of months last year, to cultivate an enthusiasm for football matches, as that seemed to be a favourite topic amongst the other boys in his year, but he never really caught the fever.  
  
Tristram pauses on a show about dredging for treasure in the Thames that looks halfway interesting, but Emily makes him keep going until he gets to a dance competition. Tristram doesn't really see the point, but he likes some of the music, and he'd rather Emily be happy than kick up a fuss. It's just telly, and like she said, he can watch it any time he wants.  
  
When it's over, they go upstairs to get ready for bed. When Tristram returns from the bathroom, Emily is sitting on her bed with the tent sheets folded back, holding the Harry Potter book.  
  
"Can you ask your dad to read to us?" she asks, holding the book out to him.  
  
"I'll read," he says as he crawls onto his bed. It's not worth going downstairs to ask, as he knows what the answer will be. He's not resentful, it's simply not something his father does. Just like Doctor Watson doesn't help them take blood samples and smear their nasal discharge on microscope slides.  
  
"I bet he'd do the voices really well," Emily says, somewhat wistfully. "Especially Snape."  
  
Tristram imagines that's probably true. He fancies Snape has a deep, resounding voice like his father. He'd also make a good Dumbledore.  
  
"He doesn't like this kind of book," Tristram says, rather than try and explain why his father, on principle, wouldn't read to them. Mostly because he doesn't know exactly what that principle is, only that it's true.  
  
"My dad also didn't think he'd like this book, and he read it," Emily argues stubbornly.  
  
"Your father's different." Although it's really Tristram's father that's different, but again, that's harder to explain.  
  
"If you're not going to ask him, I will," Emily says resolutely and climbs out of bed.  
  
"I don't think you should bother him," Tristram tries. "He's working."  
  
"He's not working," Emily scoffs, "he's sitting there reading the newspaper."  
  
"That's working, for him. He's thinking. That's mostly what his work is, thinking."  
  
"He's been doing that all day," she says, although that isn't really true. He was out all morning - working, granted - and then he spent a large chunk of the afternoon with Tristram and Emily at the microscope. And Tristram has the feeling that he hasn't really been occupied with anything important since dinner. He's just waiting for Doctor Watson to come back so he can go out and interview that witness, like he said. So there's really no reason for him not to read the book.  
  
"Anyway, it won't take long," Emily continues. "And if he's really busy, he can just say so." With that, she is out the door and down the stairs, the book clutched firmly in front of her chest.  
  
Tristram isn't sure whether to go after her or not. Partly, he's worried his father will get annoyed at the intrusion and say or do something to make Emily feel bad, and maybe he should intervene before it gets that far. But he's also interested to see whether Father will respond the way he did when she asked him to do something with them that afternoon. He perks his ears for some clue either way.  
  
He doesn't hear any voices, but it doesn't take long before there are footsteps coming up the stairs. Two sets. Emily comes into the room, smiling, and Father is right behind her, looking intently at the book in his hand. Tristram goggles a bit. Somehow he doesn't think that Father would have agreed to come up if Tristram had been the one to ask. On the other hand, he's never tried.  
  
Father used to read to him, when Tristram was little. Dorling Kindersley, David Macaulay, David M. Schwartz. But when Tristram figured out how to make the letters coalesce into meanings, they stopped. It was faster and easier to read for himself. He'd sometimes ask for help with a word here and there, but it would have felt silly for Father to do something for him that he was perfectly capable of doing himself. Just like he never asks his father to tie his shoes for him, or make him breakfast, or titrate his soil samples.  
  
But he's beginning to think that Doctor Watson reads to Emily at bedtime for another reason. Not because she can't read herself, but because it's pleasant to be doing something together. Sitting together in a safe, intimate space, sharing in the enjoyment of the story, the quiet, steady sound of her father's voice... it's not entirely unappealing.  
  
"Emily says you'd like it if I read a chapter of this to you," Father says. It sounds like he finds the notion foreign but not entirely unappealing, like Tristram felt the first time he ate raw fish. He hadn't been opposed to trying it, and the colors and shapes made him curious, but it had taken a bit of convincing on Uncle Mycroft's part. In the end, he'd enjoyed it very much. Tristram wishes he'd gone downstairs with Emily so he could have heard what she said.  
  
"You don't have to," Tristram allows, even as he slides back onto the bed to make room. "Not if you're busy."  
  
"No, it's fine. I'm just waiting for John to come back." His father sits down on the foot of Tristram's bed, while Emily forgoes the field bed to fit herself in next to Tristram up against the headboard, the way they were last night when Doctor Watson read to them. Her shoulder presses against Tristram's, and he presses back, just a little, not to defend his space but to share it.  
  
Father looks up at the sheets hanging from the ceiling. "Did John help you do this?" he asks.  
  
Tristram nods, bracing for the next comment. He's not worried that his father will be angry about the holes in the sheets, or in the ceiling, but he does expect some remark on how it's not the right shape for a real tent, or how impractical it is for getting in and out of the bed.  
  
"Isn't it cool?" Emily says.  
  
Father smiles a bit and opens the book. "Yes, I suppose it is."  
  
Tristram is almost disappointed. That's it? Now he really wonders what Emily said to his father downstairs. Not that he's complaining. Father thinks their tent is cool. And he's sitting here, on the foot of Tristram's bed, about to read to them.  
  
"Where should I start?" Father asks.  
  
"Chapter five," Emily tells him, and squeezes in a little closer to Tristram.  
  
Afterwards, when Father turns out the light and goes back downstairs, Tristram snuggles under his blankets and hears Emily in the bed beside his doing the same thing. It strikes him that, even with whatever threats are still out there, and these new killers his father is after, this is the first time since Friday Afternoon that he's felt good, and safe, and happy.  
  


&&&&&&

  
"Everything go all right?"  
  
"You've already been upstairs and seen they're tucked up snug in their beds while visions of sugarplums dance through their heads," Sherlock says with more than a hint of sarcasm.  
  
John sighs and hangs up his jacket. "Bit early for Father Christmas."  
  
Sherlock snorts and logs off his computer. John drops wearily onto the armchair facing him.  
  
"I'm sorry about this morning."  
  
"I did get your text." Sherlock starts sorting through the things on the desk.  
  
"Yeah, well I wanted to tell you in person too." John rubs his forehead. "I was frustrated and I thought you were shutting me out. But you were right, one of us needed to stay here. And I couldn't have told Mycroft anything that you couldn't. Much less, probably."  
  
Sherlock leans back and runs his hands through his hair. "No," he agrees. "Although I'm not sure I would have taken you along anyway. The contacts I was after today are wary of strangers."  
  
"Homeless?"  
  
Sherlock makes an affirmative noise.  
  
"Might still have been good to let someone know where you were going, in case you ran into trouble," John says a bit tightly.  
  
"I didn't."  
  
"No, but you might have."  
  
They stare at each other, a battle of wills. Sherlock drops his eyes first. "I've told you, I'm not-"  
  
"I get it, Sherlock. I know you're used to working alone. And I understand about today. I suppose I was oversensitive, what with all the-" He waves his hand helplessly toward the couch.  
  
Sherlock frowns and looks away.  
  
"What you said about Clara was unacceptable, though," he says firmly. "Especially in front of Emily and Tris."  
  
Sherlock scoffs. "They didn't understand-"  
  
"They understand more than you think. Especially Tris. He's you, Sherlock. Would you have understood when you were his age? How much did you pick up on that the adults around you didn't want you to know?"  
  
Sherlock rubs his eyes. "I can't protect him from everything." He sounds weary.  
  
"He doesn't need protection from Clara and Harry," John says flatly.  
  
"Fine." Sherlock stands. "I'm going to the hospital."  
  
"Did you track down that witness after all?"  
  
"Yes. In fact, it turns out she's at Bart's. You won't have seen her, though. You're not mentioned on her chart."  
  
"How did you- No, never mind, I don't want to know. Just out of curiosity, what's her name?"  
  
"Princess." Sherlock goes to get his coat from the hook.  
  
John laughs. "No, I think I would remember that. But hold on." He turns halfway around in the chair so he can look at Sherlock. "Homeless woman? Attacked with a knife?"  
  
Sherlock pauses in wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Yes. Did you hear something about her?"  
  
"It might not be her. I don't recall the name-"  
  
"Princess isn't her real name. Abigail McCarthy," Sherlock says, his eyes now flashing with interest.  
  
"Could be, I don't know. But Sherlock, the woman I heard about wasn't involved in an accident. It didn't appear to be a random mugging, either. She was-" John steels himself. "Someone deliberately cut one of her eyes out. Cleanly too, or as cleanly as could be done outside of an OP. One of her teeth was extracted as well. Not knocked out. Extracted. Those weren't accidental injuries."  
  
"Are you certain?" Sherlock asks sharply.  
  
"Absolutely. The surgeon who worked on her was talking about it because the case was so unusual."  
  
"Then it's urgent I speak with her right away." Sherlock finishes putting on his outerwear and takes his gloves out of his coat pocket.  
  
John stands up as well. "She's still going to be groggy from the anaesthetic, I imagine."  
  
"I'll wait."  
  
"Sherlock, if you think this is somehow connected-"  
  
"It has to be," Sherlock says, speaking very quickly now. "The warehouse where Claire brought Tristram and Emily is in Princess' territory. The day after I get back from Llanbroc and go out to talk to her, I find out she's been the victim of a targeted attack the night before. That can't possibly be a coincidence. Someone's trying to stop her from talking. But then why didn't they kill her? She must know something, something they want her to tell me. So which is it? Do they want her to keep quiet, or tell me something? You see the problem."  
  
"It might not have to do with you at all," John says mildly. "Rival gangs, revenge for a drug deal gone wrong, hell, maybe she stole someone's shoes," he suggests.  
  
"I'll look into all of that," Sherlock says, but it sounds more like lip service.  
  
"I understand this is something you'd best do alone," John says, "but I'll be honest: I don't like it. What if someone goes after her at the hospital to finish the job, and you just happen to be there?"  
  
"I just told you, weren't you listening? They didn't want to kill her. This is a message of some kind. I only hope she knows what the message is, and whom it's meant for."  
  
"So let me get this straight: you hope a woman was maimed and disfigured to send you a message?" John says as if he very much hopes that isn't the case.  
  
"I hope," Sherlock says, speaking crisply as he buttons up his coat, "that whoever is behind all this is leaving more clues so that I can track them down more quickly."  
  
"Right."  
  
"It won't make any difference if I feel sorry for her."  
  
"Might make a difference to her."  
  
"All she cares about is how much money I pay for her information."  
  
"Well, have at it then, I guess." John goes into the kitchen, where he heads for the tea kettle.  
  
Sherlock goes out the door from the living room, but a moment later re-appears in the entrance to the kitchen from the outer hall.  
  
"John?" Sherlock's voice is quieter now, more hesitant.  
  
John looks up from filling the kettle.  
  
"I believe I was wrong."  
  
"About Princess?" John says, still irritated over their previous exchange.  
  
"No, not-" Sherlock stops, frustrated, and tries again. "It's not casual."  
  
John shuts off the water, looking bewildered. "Pardon?"  
  
"It's not... What you said the other night." Sherlock squeezes his gloves with both hands. "It's not casual for me, either. In fact, I may..." Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I may, quite without noticing, have become involved."  
  
"Oh." John sets the kettle on the counter and goes over to Sherlock. He stands in front of him with his hands in his pockets. "Well, that's..." He clears his throat. "Kind of out of left field, but um... It sort of dovetails with my experience too."  
  
Sherlock frowns, unsure. "I'm not sure what to do about it at this point."  
  
"Do you want to do anything?" John asks carefully. "One way or the other?"  
  
"Um... yes, actually. Quite desperately, in fact."  
  
He leans closer, lowering his head in increments. John tilts his face up to meet him. The kiss is slow and sweet and followed by several more.  
  
Finally, Sherlock says, "I have to go." They are both breathing heavily.  
  
John takes a step back. "I know, it's fine." He looks at Sherlock with a glint of humour in his eye. "I probably don't want to know how you're going to get into Princess' room."  
  
Sherlock smiles. "Probably not." He takes a step backward into the hall.  
  
"Be careful," John admonishes him.  
  
Sherlock nods and runs lightly down the stairs.  
  
After John's had his tea and cleaned up in the kitchen, he goes to the living room and gathers up the bedding from the couch. He takes it into Sherlock's room, then comes back out, carrying the pillow and duvet from Sherlock's bed, and spreads them on the couch. He then picks up his duffel bag from where it was stowed behind the couch, turns off the lights, and goes down the hall to Sherlock's room.  
  


&&&&&&

  
John half wakes up when the mattress moves in the middle of the night. "Em?" he croaks, turning over groggily.  
  
"Ssh, it's just me," Sherlock says in a low voice. He adjusts the quilt so it's over both of them. "Why did you exchange the bedding?"  
  
"Thought you wanted the couch..." John mumbles. He lies there for a few seconds, trying to decide whether to wake up more or fall back asleep. Finally, he pushes the quilt away and starts to get up.  
  
"It's all right, John." Sherlock puts a hand on his arm, gently pulling him back down and tucking them in again. "Go back to sleep."  
  
"You can have the couch," John says, but his words are slurred and indistinct. His muscle tone is already going slack again.  
  
Sherlock curls on his side so his knees are pressed against John's leg and one hand is resting on his upper arm.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

  
Tristram is awake before Emily again the next morning, but this time it's not terribly early. It's Monday, so they have school - at least Tristram assumes they're going back, as no one's said otherwise - and they'll need to leave in about an hour. He crawls out of bed and finds his school uniform in the semi-darkness. Once he's dressed, he lifts the sheet and shakes Emily's shoulder, telling her he'll meet her downstairs for breakfast. He makes sure his phone is in his pocket and goes down.  
  
His father's already up and dressed, flitting around between the kitchen and the living room with a cup of tea. Tristram says, "Good morning," and gets a grunt and a nod over the rim of the cup in reply. He puts two slices of bread into the toaster and peeks into the living room. Doctor Watson isn't there, but Father's blanket is on the couch, so Doctor Watson probably slept in Father's room. Is probably still in there, in fact, since the bathroom door is open and the bedroom door is closed. That gives Tristram a bit of a queer feeling, which doesn't make sense because Father isn't in there with him, and apparently wasn't last night either. Also, Emily has been sleeping in Tristram's room all weekend, with Tristram, and that's not weird. It's not the same, though, somehow, although Tristram can't say exactly why.  
  
He goes into the bathroom while the toast is cooking, and when he comes out, Emily is there, blinking sleepily but wearing her uniform. "Where's my dad?" she asks Father.  
  
Rather than responding, Father goes down the short hallway and knocks on the bedroom door. "John?"  
  
There is an answering rumble of some sort. Satisfied, Father comes back to the kitchen and puts his tea cup on the sideboard.  
  
The toast has already popped up, so Tristram puts the pieces on a plate, which he hands to Emily, and puts in two more.  
  
"Did he sleep in your room?" she asks Father conversationally, as she reaches absently into the refrigerator for the butter.  
  
Father hums an affirmative response.  
  
"My father slept on the couch," Tristram announces, just so there's no misunderstanding.  
  
Father gives Tristram an odd look, but doesn't say anything.  
  
The bedroom door opens and Doctor Watson emerges, wearing loose sweatpants and a sweatshirt with something written on the front that's obscured by the bundle of clothes he's clutching in front of him. He blinks the same way Emily did just a few minutes ago. "Morning everyone," he says, his voice still rough from sleep.  
  
"Hi Daddy." Emily jumps up to give him a hug. He hugs her back with one hand and runs a hand over her hair, then looks over at Tris and smiles. "Morning, Tris."  
  
"Hi," Tristram says, then busies himself with the next two pieces of toast that pop up.  
  
"You sleep all right on the couch?" Doctor Watson asks Father.  
  
"Didn't end up sleeping," Father says, but he mumbles the words a bit and looks away, which makes Tristram suspicious. But why would he lie about whether he slept or not?  
  
Doctor Watson becomes a little more alert at that too, but apparently for another reason. "Anything new?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Father shakes his head and pushes off the counter he was leaning against. "She was still too heavily sedated. If you get ready quickly, we can go to the hospital together after we bring the children to school."  
  
Doctor Watson disappears into the bathroom, and Tristram hears the water turn on. Emily gets out orange juice and butter, and they settle down to breakfast.  
  
It's a bit weird - but fun - to leave the flat with everyone half an hour later. Emily is still telling her father about using the microscope yesterday, and Doctor Watson says he wants to see the notes and illustrations they made.  
  
Just as they get to the bottom of the stairs, Mrs Hudson pops out, still in her dressing gown, and says good morning. She pretends she happens to be checking if the newspaper is there yet, but Tristram can see that her fingers are already smudged with newsprint from licking them to turn the pages.  
  
She doesn't manage much more than an introduction before Father pulls the front door open and says they have to run. They won't actually have to run, of course, but they may have to make quick time if they're walking with Doctor Watson and Emily, neither of whom are anywhere near as fast as Father.  
  
"Oh, watch out, there's a package!" Mrs Hudson warns Father - who's looking back at Doctor Watson and not paying attention to where he's going - just before he steps on it.  
  
Everyone looks down. A white plastic box is standing right outside the door. Tristram recognises it as the type that's used to transport body parts. Father must have asked someone to drop something off for one of his experiments. But Father doesn't pick it up. Instead, he snaps his arm out as if to hold everyone else back, and crouches down, craning his neck so he can look at it from every angle.  
  
"Sherlock?" Doctor Watson's voice has that sharp edge to it. Not the one he used yesterday when he got angry at Father for mentining that other case, the one with Moran. No, this voice is the one he used when he said, 'Three minutes,' on Friday Afternoon. Three minutes until the not-bomb was supposed to go off. Tristram takes a careful step backwards up the stairs.  
  
"What is it?" Emily wants to know.  
  
"Stay back," Doctor Watson says, still sharp. Then he turns to Mrs Hudson. "I'm sorry, would you mind taking them-"  
  
"Of course," she agrees. "Tristram, Emily, why don't you come inside with me." She reaches out and puts a hand on Emily's shoulder. "We can go right on through to the back-"  
  
"No need for that, Mrs Hudson. It's not an explosive," Father says without taking his eye off the box for a second. "In fact..." He sticks his hands into his coat pockets and comes up with a pair of plastic gloves that he quickly wriggles his fingers into. Then he flips open the lid of the box as if it's a treasure chest. Nothing happens, aside from him letting out a long sigh. Tristram knows that sigh. It's the one he makes when he's hit upon a particularly interesting puzzle. Tristram stands on his toes to see what's inside the box.  
  
"Oh my God," says Doctor Watson, who also steps forward to look at the contents. "Are those-"  
  
Mrs Hudson peers into the box, too, then gasps and turns away, her hand against her cheek.  
  
"Cool, is that an eye?" Emily says, before Mrs Hudson pulls her back to the doorway of her flat.  
  
"Say hello to Princess." Father sounds almost proud.  
  
"Are they returning them?" Doctor Watson asks. "Why not bring them to Bart's? Not that it's possible to re-attach an eye. The tooth maybe, it looks like they got the whole root."  
  
Tristram wants very much to see what's in the box now, but his father's head is in the way.  
  
Father looks up at Doctor Watson from where he's hunched down on the floor as if he were mad. "This is the message, John. We're not bringing these to Bart's. Well, maybe to use the lab. Wouldn't it be brilliant if they've put something _inside_?" He leans down so close to the box his nose is practically touching it.  
  
"Sherlock, no," Doctor Watson says in a voice that allows no contradiction. He bends down to pick up the box, but Father grabs his wrist to stop him.  
  
"This is evidence, John."  
  
"Those belong to Abigail McCarthy, and she might well like to have them back."  
  
"You can't give them back. You said yourself they can't do anything with the eye, and she won't miss one more tooth. She'll probably be glad not to have it, one less to worry about it going bad."  
  
"You did not just say that."  
  
"I did, and I'm not going to apologise. Not if this helps us to get one step closer to- Oh!" Father's eyes light up and his grip tightens on Doctor Watson's arm. "Oh, John! An eye and a tooth! I thought at first it must have something to do with eyeteeth, but then why wouldn't they simply have taken an eyetooth? And that would be ridiculous anyway, no message there. No, it's-"  
  
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," Doctor Watson completes the thought, with Mrs Hudson chiming in for the last phrase as well.  
  
"But what does it mean?" Mrs Hudson asks, looking from one man to the other.  
  
Doctor Watson and Father are staring at each other. It's not one of those long, electric stares they used to give each other at the Watsons' house and that made Tristram uncomfortable without quite knowing why. This stare makes him uncomfortable, too, but he knows why: Doctor Watson and Father are about to have another disagreement.  
  
"Go back upstairs," Doctor Watson says. He's still looking at Father, but Tristram knows he's talking to him and Emily.  
  
"But we're going to be late for school!" Emily complains.  
  
They really are. At this point, they'll have to take a cab to have any hope of getting there on time.  
  
"You're not going to school," her father tells her.  
  
"Wrong," Father says, standing up in one smooth motion.  
  
"You do know what that phrase means, don't you?" Doctor Watson says. "Revenge, Sherlock. Tit for tat, a life for a life."  
  
"Yes, but look how this was done." Father gestures down at the open box, where Tristram can now see the eye, packed in plastic, staring up at the ceiling. Father's done things with eyes - both animal and human - before, so this isn't anything shocking. "Precise. Neat. They took exactly what they needed, no more, no less. They're not going to do anything messy, and they're not going to repeat themselves. No bombs, no kidnappings-"  
  
"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson says, her voice quavering. "All this talk of bombs and kidnapping, Sherlock, I'm not sure it's right."  
  
"Quite right, Mrs Hudson," Father says. He takes out his phone and snaps some pictures of the box from different angles, saying at the same time: "Tristram, come along. I'm taking you to school."  
  
"Sherlock, this is mad-" Doctor Watson protests, but Father keeps talking right over him.  
  
"It's exactly as safe as staying here, with the added benefit of leaving both of us free to follow up on other leads." Father puts away his phone again and picks up the box, tucking it under one arm. "Or, if you must, you can go wipe noses and put on plasters. Tristram? We'll have to get a cab." He inclines his head toward the street.  
  
Tristram looks at Doctor Watson. He's staring at Father, looking grim.  
  
"You can leave Emily with me, Doctor Watson," Mrs Hudson offers. "I'd be happy to watch her if you need to go to work."  
  
"I want to go with Tris," Emily says firmly. "If he's going to school, so am I."  
  
"Yeah, hold on," Doctor Watson says, not taking his eyes off Father. "You have to be sure, Sherlock. This isn't about you being clever. We know what they're capable of."  
  
Father shakes his head and smiles, but he's not smiling at Doctor Watson, exactly, and certainly not to reassure him. He's smiling the way he does when he's engaged, when he comes as close as Tristram knows him to being happy. "Oh, you're wrong, John. It's all about being clever now. This is a new game, with new rules. And yes, I'm sure."  
  
Tristram doesn't understand what his father means about a game, but he said no more bombs or kidnappings, and his father's always right. Always. He hopes Doctor Watson agrees, because he doesn't want to have to choose.  
  
Finally, Doctor Watson nods. "All right." Everyone lets out their breath. He jerks his head toward Emily. "Come on."  
  
Emily darts over to him, and Tristram scrambles to get to the door.  
  
"Is there anything you'd like me to do, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asks.  
  
"No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. It's all under control."  
  
Father is practically buzzing with energy on the way out to the street. His eyes are bright and his hands are flying all over, waving down a cab, plucking at the box, adjusting and re-adjusting his scarf. Doctor Watson, on the other hand, almost seems to have been turned to stone. His mouth is fixed in a thin line and his shoulders are rigid, his hand clamped around Emily's shoulder.  
  
"Can I see the eye again?" Emily asks once they're settled in the cab.  
  
Doctor Watson barks out, "No," before Father can answer. Emily starts at the sharp tone. He turns to her and explains carefully but with a thrumming sort of tension, "Emily, a lady was hurt very badly. She's half blind now. That can't ever be fixed. Sherlock is going to see if he can find any clues that will help us track down the people who did it. He's not taking the eye and the tooth to play with, or do experiments on, or because he's curious like you and Tris were yesterday with the samples you looked under the microscope. Do you understand?"  
  
Emily nods, chastened. Tristram sneaks a look at his father, because he's pretty sure that a big part of the reason he wants to take the eye and the tooth to the lab at the hospital is curiosity. The fact that he might also be able to track down some criminals (or killers, if this is related to the Moran case) is a lesser point. But his father isn't even looking at Doctor Watson. He's looking out the window, his fingers drumming rapidly on the lid of the transport box. He's probably already thinking about what he wants to do once he gets to the lab.

&&&&&&

  
After school, Doctor Watson is waiting for Tristram and Emily with a cab. Tristram expects they'll all go back to Baker Street, but Doctor Watson apologises and explains that with all the excitement that morning, he forgot Emily has an appointment to see the lady with the Geomag and the ping-pong. Tristram had forgot all about her too. Father said he'd make an appointment for Tristram, but he didn't, and now Tristram will just have to tag along and wait with Doctor Watson in the waiting room, which isn't fair at all. Emily doesn't think so, either, and says she won't go in without him, but Doctor Watson asks her to please not make it any more difficult, and Tristram can tell he's this close to losing his temper. Emily goes, dragging her feet.  
  
Once she's gone, Tristram scowls at the floor for a good five minutes while Doctor Watson goes out to get himself a coffee from the machine down the hall. When he comes back, he wordlessly sets a can of some fizzy drink down next to Tristram and slumps down into the chair beside him, blowing on his coffee. Tristram wouldn't mind drinking the fizzy drink - Father and Mrs Hudson never buy any, so it's a forbidden novelty for him - but he doesn't want to forgive Doctor Watson yet. Although he knows that doesn't make much sense, since it's not Doctor Watson's fault that Emily's inside playing games and he's stuck out here. Still, he doesn't want to give Doctor Watson the satisfaction of him drinking it.  
  
Doctor Watson doesn't mention the drink, though. He just sits there quietly, drinking his coffee. When he's just about done with it (Tristram can tell by the way the sound of him sipping gets a bit more hollow as the cup empties), he starts talking. Tristram, captive audience that he is, can't help but listen.  
  
"When I was first in the army," Doctor Watson begins, and Tristram's interest is immediately, helplessly piqued, because he knows that Doctor Watson used to be in the army, but he's never said a word about it. It's true they played army games yesterday, but Tristram realises only now that those scenarios were probably based on real ones Doctor Watson experienced. He wonders, with a somewhat guilty thrill, whether Doctor Watson has ever killed anyone.  
  
"There was this bloke," Doctor Watson is saying, "one of the other doctors at the base where I was stationed. Captain Gentry. We called him Gents. Sometimes Ladies and Gents." Doctor Watson grins. "Sometimes just Ladies." Tristram is still staring at the floor, but he can hear the smile.  
  
"Gents was a big guy, probably even bigger than your dad." Doctor Watson puts his cup down and folds his hands, which Tristram sees out of the corner of his eye. "But calm," he continues. "He never lost his head. No matter what was going on around him, he kept it together. Mortar rounds going off close enough we can feel the ground shaking, bodies coming in missing half their parts, Gents was as calm as a day at the beach. To me, he was everything a military doctor should be, and I wanted to be just like him. He was competent and efficient, he knew when to ignore protocol if it would save a life, and he didn't seem to be affected by the immensity of the tragedies going on around us.  
  
"But you know what I figured out fairly quickly was, Gents was like that because he didn't care. I mean, yes, he cared about saving patients, but he didn't have any emotional investment. If they died, or were sent home crippled or paralysed or blind, that was just the way things worked out. So while the rest of us would go out and get drunk off our rocks, or pick fights to burn off some of that anger and desperation we'd picked up, Gents would be working another shift to cover our sorry arses when we turned up hung over or with our knuckles too swollen to operate."  
  
Tristram thinks he sees where Doctor Watson is going with this. He's pretty much describing Father's attitude toward the people in his cases, both the victims he's able to help, their families, and those who are beyond help. Father cares about solving the cases, but he doesn't care about the people. He doesn't get sad when someone dies, even if it's a serial killer case and there's a new victim while he's working on it. In fact, he likes those best because they give him the freshest data.  
  
Maybe Doctor Watson has just figured this out, and is trying to explain it to Tristram. Tristram knows it already, though, and it doesn't bother him. He knows it's the biggest reason why some of the police officers his father works with don't like him very much, but Tristram can see Father's point: as long as he gets the results and solves the cases for them, it doesn't matter one way or the other how he feels about it.  
  
Doctor Watson goes on with his story: "I tried to do that," he says. "I tried to block it out and not be affected by the patients' anger, or their fear, or the thought of what kind of future they might have, but I couldn't. I simply couldn't, it always got to me, and I thought, well, I'll never be as good a doctor as Gents. I'll always have this weakness. But do you know what happened then?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
Of course Tristram doesn't, but this is one of those rhetorical questions he's supposed to wait for the answer for, and Doctor Watson provides it right away.  
  
"I found out I was wrong about Gents," he says. "Everyone was. Because one day, he went through the ward, made sure all his patients were comfortable, topped up with pain medication, what have you, went back to his barracks, and... Well, he tried to kill himself, Tris." Doctor Watson's hands tighten over each other.  
  
Tristram is so startled by that statement that he turns to look at Doctor Watson. Not only is this a twist he didn't see coming, he is deeply disquieted by the suggestion - through the parallel he's drawn in his own mind - that Father might also try to kill himself. Why would he do that? It doesn't make any sense.  
  
"Someone found him in time," Doctor Watson reassures him quickly, "and we were able to save his life, but it turned out he actually did care about all those people he'd treated and not been able to save, or thought he hadn't been able to do enough for. He didn't want to care, but he did. And that hurt him, so much, that he didn't know what to do with all that hurt. Do you..." Doctor Watson shifts a bit in his chair so he's facing Tristram more squarely. "Do you see what I'm trying to say here, Tris?"  
  
Tristram really doesn't. Is Father upset about a case? Does this have anything to do with him and Doctor Watson? Tristram must look as bewildered as he feels, even if he doesn't say anything, because Doctor Watson again answers his own question.  
  
"Okay," he sighs, "what I'm trying to tell you, and obviously failing spectacularly at, is it's okay to have feelings about things. Even bad feelings. Especially bad feelings. It's okay to be angry, or sad, or not even to understand what you're feeling. What's not so good is to pretend they're not there. Because they are, and at some point they're going to come out, maybe in a way that will hurt you, or maybe in a way that will hurt someone else."  
  
Does his father have bad feelings? Has Tristram made him feel bad? He must know - of course he does, he knows everything - that Tristram was unhappy (or scared, or angry, or … or something, he doesn't know) about him and Doctor Watson being together like that, even about them being friends, and that's why they stopped, that's why they aren't like that anymore, that's why they're sleeping in different rooms and not talking easily and laughing like they used to, and his father was sneaking around and sleeping on the floor just so he could be close to Doctor Watson but he ran away as soon as Tristram saw them. An unpleasant, prickly feeling lodges in Tristram's chest.  
  
"I didn't mean to-" Tristram blurts out. "I didn't-" He shakes his head. He clutches at the hard plastic seat of the chair. It's smooth, and warm, and slightly tacky; Tristram wonders if that's from the plastic itself or from his fingers. He could wash one hand and not the other and try touching it ag-  
  
"Hey, Tris, it's okay," Doctor Watson says, his voice gentle and reassuring. He reaches over and puts a hand on Tristram's lower arm. "Whatever it is, it's okay."  
  
It's not, though, it's not, he's been selfish and childish. How would he have felt if his father had disapproved of him being friends with Emily? He doesn't want to think about that because it would have hurt, a lot. And that's how he's made his father feel. The worst part is, he feels a tiny, secret bit of triumph. He knows that's also not okay, no matter what Doctor Watson says. But he doesn't want his father to be sad, and he certainly doesn't want him to hurt himself!  
  
"Is it... Do you want to tell me?" Doctor Watson shifts so he's facing Tristram more directly. His hand is still on Tristram's arm, not moving, not even really holding, just there, not letting Tristram ignore him.  
  
Tristram shakes his head. He really, really doesn't. He's embarrassed, not only because he knows he messed up, but also because talking about it means talking about - or at least acknowledging - Father and Doctor Watson kissing.  
  
"This is um..." Doctor Watson clears his throat. "That's sort of what I'm talking about. Tris?" He squeezes Tristram's arm, just a little. "You're an amazing kid. You're an amazing _person_ , full stop. You've seen things, and done things, and been through things that- Well, lots of grown-ups wouldn't have dealt with it all nearly as well as you have. But sometimes I …" He sucks in a deep breath. "I worry about you, Tristram. Just a little, just... I wonder what's going on in your head. What you're thinking. What you're feeling."  
  
Doctor Watson stops talking then and waits. Tristram didn't think he really needed to say anything, because there wasn't a question, but now it seems like Doctor Watson's waiting for Tristram to speak. To say what he's thinking. What he's feeling. He doesn't know. He's uncomfortable, that's all. He wishes Emily were done and they could go home. He shrugs, hoping that will be enough to appease Doctor Watson. It seems it is, because he starts talking again.  
  
"Okay," he says. "I can understand if you're not sure. There's been a lot going on, and I can imagine some of it's pretty confusing. But Tris, this is really important. I'd really like it if you could talk to someone, sometime, about whatever it is. Or about anything, really. I'm happy to be that person, if you want. I won't tell your dad either, if you don't want me to. Or, you know, sometimes it helps to write your feelings down, or to draw a picture about how you feel. But mostly, I want you to know that you're not alone. Even if you don't feel like talking, or don't know what to say, you've got your dad, and Mrs Hudson, and me and Emily, and all of us will always stick with you. Always. Okay?"  
  
Tristram nods because that's what Doctor Watson wants him to do. So that they can be done with this conversation.  
  
Doctor Watson squeezes Tristram's arm once more and takes it away. That makes Tristram feel even worse, which is stupid because it means he's done talking, which is what Tristram wants. All of a sudden, he has the mortifying urge to crawl into Doctor Watson's lap and curl up there, like Emily does sometimes. He's too big for that, though, and anyway Doctor Watson isn't his father! Not that he would curl up on his father's lap either.  
  
He picks up the fizzy drink and opens it without thinking about it, just to have something to do, something to distract himself. He takes a tentative sip; it's so prickly on his tongue he can hardly taste it, and it makes his nose and eyes water. It's definitely the drink prickling that makes his eyes water.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

  
When Emily's done, they don't go back to Tristram's flat; they go to the Watsons'. Doctor Watson says Tristram's father will come and get him later on. Emily's father has already collected her things from Baker Street while they were at school, and tonight they'll be staying at their own house again. Emily puts up a token pout, but Tristram can tell she's relieved, too.  
  
The unpleasant prickles from before have precipitated and solidified into a hard lump of unhappiness in Tristram's stomach. It's not so much that he'll miss Emily sleeping in his room or reading together at bedtime or having someone to eat with, but the knowledge that he's driven Doctor Watson even further away. Maybe he and Father won't even be friends now. Maybe he won't help with any more cases.  
  
Tristram declines any of the biscuits and apple slices and milk that Doctor Watson gives them, saying he's full from the fizzy drink. His stomach really does feel a little queasy. Doctor Watson looks concerned and asks if Tristram wants to lie down, but he's afraid if he does that he'll cry, so he says no.  
  
They clear off the kitchen table so they can sit there and do their homework. They have a double load to make up for the day of school they missed. Doctor Watson sits down with them and helps Emily with her maths while Tristram does his reading. It's a poem, something about a man going to sea. Tristram finishes it quickly - it's pretty short - but he sits there for a while looking the words over again, because it's funny how it makes him think of Father. Father has no interest in sailing that Tristram knows of, yet lines like 'I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely seas and sky' and the 'vagrant gypsy life' resound in a startling way. It's the call of adventure, the thrill of the unknown, the challenge of one man against nature (or against all the criminal underworld of Greater London). The last two lines, especially, give Tristram pause:  
  
 _And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,  
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. _  
  
Tristram knows that a 'yarn' is a story. Father likes hearing Doctor Watson's stories, and sharing his own stories with him. They've laughed together several times, in a way Tristram never saw his father laugh before: hearty and genuine. And Father's tried twice now to sleep next to Doctor Watson - Tristram counts whatever it was he walked in on at Grandmother's, even though they weren't asleep, because he reckons they would have ended up asleep together there on the big bed if he hadn't interrupted them. Maybe, in the end, what it says in the poem is what his father's always been after, yet never found. Maybe, that's what he could have with Doctor Watson.  
  
The sounds of paper shuffling and chair legs dragging on the floor bring Tristram back to the kitchen. Emily is now writing out sentences for her spelling words, and Doctor Watson pulls his chair round so he's next to Tristram.  
  
"Do you have anything I can look at with you?" he asks as he scoots his chair in closer.  
  
Tristram puts down the reading. He still has his maths and a science worksheet. He doesn't expect he'll need help with either of them, but Doctor Watson said 'look at', not 'help', so he gets out the worksheet and shows it to him. It's about the solar system.  
  
"Looks pretty interesting," Doctor Watson says as he hands the paper back to Tristram. "Do you understand what you're supposed to do?"  
  
Tristram nods. Of course. He points to the words on the page. "It says right there: 'Match each statement to the correct planet', and then..." He points at the sentence right above the big space at the bottom of the paper. "'Draw one of the planets using coloured pencils and write three sentences about it'."  
  
Doctor Watson smiles, like he's pleased with the answer, when all Tristram's done is read what's written there black on white. Still, it makes him feel good.  
  
Doctor Watson says, "Yes, exactly. Maybe you can kind of talk me through the answers as you do them?"  
  
It feels a little silly, but he reads off the first sentence: "'This planet is closest to the sun'," and draws a line to the word 'Mercury'. Doctor Watson asks what else he knows about Mercury (it's smaller than the earth) and what he thinks it would be like to live there (nothing can live there, it's too hot), and then lets him read the next sentence. He'd be done with the worksheet much faster if he just did it himself, but by the time they get to the sixth statement, Tristram has become more interested in Doctor Watson's questions than in rushing to complete the exercise.  
  
Doctor Watson is leaning in so he can see the worksheet, with his arm over the back of Tristram's chair. He's not touching Tristram, but he's close, and Tristram catches himself thinking about what it would feel like to lean against his shoulder. Would it be hard yet warm, like when he leaned against his father's side the other night looking out the window at Llanbroc? Would it make him feel safe in the same way? He doesn't feel unsafe now, certainly. Now that he knows there aren't going to be any more bombs and no one will try to kidnap him or Emily again.  
  
Tristram reads the next sentence: "'This planet is surrounded by orbiting particles that look like rings'," and then they have a little discussion about whether that's Jupiter or Saturn, during which Doctor Watson has to look up the planets on Wikipedia and finds out that, yes, Jupiter also has rings, which he says he didn't know, and so do Uranus and Pluto, which Tristram didn't know. But then Tristram notices the next sentence, 'This planet is home to a storm called The Great Red Spot that's bigger than the earth,' which must be Jupiter, and settles the question.  
  
By this time, Emily has finished her sentences and joined them too, resting her chin on her arm and asking how a storm can be bigger than the whole earth.  
  
All in all, it's starting to get dark by the time Tristram's done, but his bad mood is gone, and when he and Emily run upstairs to her room, she's shouting about making adjustments to their time machine so that they can visit other planets as well as traveling through time.  
  
She gets out some paper and colored pencils and spreads them across the floor, saying she's going to make a new set of blueprints.  
  
"You can plot out the coordinates," she says. "We don't want to end up in the Big Red Storm."  
  
Tristram isn't quite sure how she means him to do that, but he gamely sits down on the floor next to her and starts by drawing a map of the solar system, as he recalls it. As he draws, he remembers what Doctor Watson said earlier, about it sometimes helping when you have a bad feeling about something, if you draw a picture of it. He doesn't see how that's supposed to help, exactly, because that would mean you have to think about whatever it is that made you unhappy. Surely it would be better to forget about it. Even the thought of drawing a picture of … well, any of the various unpleasant, embarrassing, and scary things that have happened over the past couple of weeks makes him want to run out of the room. So he doesn't think about it anymore.  
  
However, the nagging feeling that he should really, really tell Emily about their fathers has become nearly overwhelming. Especially now that he may have messed things up so thoroughly. Maybe she will have an idea of how to fix it. Because even though he wants things to go back to how they were before, with just him and his father and the cases, he's not sure if that's possible now. If his father stops being friends with Doctor Watson, that would be like Tristram ending his friendship with Emily (and in fact, it might really result in him not seeing Emily again), which would make him very unhappy indeed. And he doesn't want to be the reason for his father's unhappiness.  
  
He lays down his pencil. "Emily..." he says tentatively.  
  
She makes a questioning sound without looking up from her sketch.  
  
"I think..." He's not sure how to start. He doesn't say anything for so long that Emily raises her eyes from her drawing and gives him a quizzical look. He forces himself to speak. "You were right. Our fathers … I saw them. Kissing," he adds, as that's pretty much the salient point.  
  
Emily grins. "Yeah, I know." She looks down and keeps colouring.  
  
Tristram is completely nonplussed. How could she possibly know that? She couldn't have seen them in his father's room at Llanbroc, since she was asleep in the other room. Maybe she saw them at the beach, but why didn't she say anything then?  
  
"Did you see them too?" he asks.  
  
She shakes her head and considers her drawing. "No, but my dad told me. He said he and your dad kissed a few times and decided they fancied each other and he wanted to know if it was okay with me, and I told him it was." She holds her drawing up. "What do you think? How's this?"  
  
"It's good," Tristram says, without really looking at the picture, because her admission has thrown him into something of a tailspin. Her father _told_ her? He _asked_ her if it was okay? When did this happen? Why did no one tell Tristram? Although, he allows, maybe Doctor Watson was kind of asking if it was okay when he came to Tristram's room the other night to make sure he wasn't uncomfortable about himself and Emily being there. And Tristram had already seen them kissing by then, which Doctor Watson knew, so it would have been rather pointless for him to tell Tristram about it.  
  
He is slightly mollified by this realisation, but he is still hurt that his father didn't see fit to say anything more to him than that it didn't concern Tristram. Although that is absolutely true, too. Tristram really has nothing to do with his father and Doctor Watson kissing, and doesn't want to have anything to do with it. So he's not sure, in the end, why the whole thing bothers him.  
  
"Why didn't you say anything before?" Tristram asks Emily.  
  
"My dad said you already knew," she tells him matter-of-factly. Then she throws the question back at him, mildly reproachful. "Why didn't _you_ say anything?"  
  
That is a very good, and fair question. "I … don't know," he answers, although that's not exactly true. "I thought maybe they wanted to keep it a secret," he tries, which is closer to being true. "What else did he tell you?"  
  
Emily picks up a blue pencil to add some more details to her drawing. "Well, he said he wasn't trying to replace Mum, that no one could ever replace Mum. Which is pretty obvious, I mean, Sherlock's a dad, not a mum, and I already have a dad. And also that he thinks Sherlock's fairly special and he fancies him a bunch, and what I thought of that, and I said it was okay. I mean, he was really, really sad when Mum..." Emily falls silent for a bit as she colours something in very carefully, then continues, more quietly, "...when Mum died. But since he met your dad he's been better." Emily stops colouring and looks up at Tristram. "He never laughed. In ever so long. He used to laugh all the time, with Mum. And now he laughs again, sometimes, with your dad. So it's good like this. Mum's not coming back. And your dad's pretty cool, actually," Emily finishes with a shrug.  
  
Tristram swallows over a big lump in his throat. "I think..." he starts, and has to clear his throat before continuing. "I think I might have messed everything up."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I walked in on them when they were kissing at my grandmother's house and they stopped, and I don't think they want to anymore. Because of me. Because they think I don't want them to or something."  
  
Emily frowns. "But my dad told me about them after we got back from your grandmother's house. When we were getting our things to go to your house. And they were sleeping on the couch together, and my dad even slept in your dad's room last night."  
  
"But my dad slept on the couch," Tristram reminds her. "And when they were both in the living room, as soon as we came in, my dad left. He didn't want us to see them together."  
  
"Well, you just have to tell him you don't care," Emily tells him stoutly. "Tell him it's okay if they fancy each other."  
  
It sounds so easy. It _is_ that easy. Tristram doesn't know if he's going to be able to do it. He has to, though.  
  
Emily's Aunt Harry knocks at the door then to tell them that dinner is ready. Doctor Watson has made spaghetti; Tristram has the feeling that the Watsons eat a lot of spaghetti. Not that he minds. He likes spaghetti.  
  
While they're in the middle of eating, the doorbell rings. Doctor Watson goes to answer it, and Tristram hears his father's voice. Tristram can tell he's excited about something. He's speaking quite loudly, something about fingers, but his and Doctor Watson's voices fade to a muffled undertone as they go into the living room.  
  
"Finish up, Tris, I'm sure your father will be wanting to leave soon," Emily's Aunt Clara says.  
  
"Or not..." her Aunt Harry drawls meaningfully, swirling the last of her wine around before draining her glass.  
  
"Harry," Clara scolds her wife, but it's playful.  
  
Tristram picks at his spaghetti and exchanges a look with Emily. Are they arguing again? Or kissing? 

&&&&&&

"What does it mean this time?" Sherlock paces the living room restlessly. "A five-finger discount? Are they going to steal something? But they only took three fingers. Slipping through our fingers? Are they teasing that they're going to get away?"  
  
"They could just want to give you the finger," John suggests wryly.  
  
Sherlock stops and grins. "Undoubtedly. But no, not deep enough. And there are multiple fingers." He whips out his phone and scrolls through a screen, reading off: "Fingers crossed, all fingers and thumbs, fingers in the till-"  
  
"To finger someone," John interrupts grimly.  
  
Sherlock looks up, nonplussed. "You think they're making a statement about what we get up to in the bedroom?"  
  
John screws his face up. "What- " Then comprehension dawns and he laughs despite himself. "Oh God, what is the glory that is your mind? Is that something that you even-" He shakes his head sharply, looking bemused. "No, Sherlock, to finger someone in the sense of laying the blame." His amusement fades. "Me. They're going to turn me in."  
  
"John, they can't possibly-"  
  
"The hell they can't!" John speaks over him. "It'll be obvious to them by now that you weren't the one who pulled the trigger. You couldn't have, the shot came from outside. Add that together with both Tristram and Emily skipping school on Friday and me not showing up for my shifts at the hospital."  
  
"That doesn't mean they have any evidence. For all they know, we were off for a dirty weekend-"  
  
"Do you even believe half the shit that comes out of your mouth? They are going to implicate me." He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks toward the windows, black now that night has fallen. "Fuck," he adds under his breath.  
  
Sherlock walks away, waving his hands around his head. "If they wanted to implicate you and have the evidence, they could have done so already. Why drag it out like this?"  
  
"They're toying with us. They enjoy watching us squirm."  
  
"Yes, but there must be more. This whole thing … It's been planned meticulously. Starting with the methylfentanyl device." He pivots and comes back toward John. "They had Tristram, they could have done anything with him to force me to back off the investigation, but they didn't. Why? The message was the important thing, not my compliance. But why send the message if they don't care whether I do what they say?" It's clear that he's talking more to himself than John at this point. "My street contacts are being targeted in much the same way. Shaken up a bit, but not put out of commission. Maybe they're trying to scare the others, stop them from sharing information with me, but then why the additional messages? An eye for an eye, revenge, yes, but it's specific. Why can't I see it?" he hisses in frustration and puts his phone away. "I have to go home and see if they've delivered the next message. Maybe the way the fingers are arranged will tell me something." He pushes his coat back so he can put his hands on his hips, staring down at John but not really seeing him as theories dance behind his eyes.  
  
"Send me a picture, it might suggest the particular phrase to me." John chuckles then, not without genuine amusement. "God, I can't believe I'm asking for pictures of amputated fingers, much less looking forward to it." He tugs on Sherlock's wrist and steps in closer. "What has my life become." He says it wryly, but with something more meaningful underneath.  
  
Sherlock's eyes focus as he comes back to himself, then darken as he takes in John standing at his side. "Come back with me," he says, sliding his hand around John's hip.  
  
"Sherlock..." John shakes his head and looks down, but doesn't step away. "Don't make this more difficult. We already discussed it this morning. This is better, for both of them. They need as much stability as possible right now."  
  
"You coming along to wait for the delivery doesn't pose a significant disruption for anyone."  
  
"You want me to leave Emily here alone?"  
  
"She's not a target and never was. We know that now."  
  
"Would you leave Tristram alone right now? Leave him here with Harry and Clara while you're on the other side of the city waiting for mutilated body parts to be delivered by some nut job?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes darken further, betraying his interest not only in the obvious but the prospect of something more dangerous. "Will you come with me if I do?" He leans in and breathes over the top of John's ear, skimming his hands up John's arms.  
  
"Sherlock! No! Look, this is... Voice of reason, remember?" Sherlock nudges John in until they are flush against each other. John's hands find their way into Sherlock's coat to steady himself on Sherlock's hips. "No distractions. Oh, God," he exhales breathily as Sherlock's lips close around his earlobe. "After. After, God, we'll..." John gives up and twists his neck to kiss Sherlock properly. "I'm going to take you properly to bed," he vows and dips in for more. 

&&&&&&

Father's and Doctor Watson's voices continue to rise and fall in the next room. Everyone is straining to hear them, not even pretending to eat anymore.  
  
"Maybe they're waiting for us to finish and go in," Emily suggests.  
  
Her Aunt Harry stands up. "Well, I'm done here anyway." She takes her glass and the empty wine bottle and goes to the kitchen.  
  
Harry's wife watches her, a brief glimmer of sadness showing in her eyes before she gets up too, ushering Tristram and Emily out of the dining room and down the hall.  
  
In the living room, Father's back is facing them, and Doctor Watson is standing very close to him. It looks like his hands are actually inside Father's coat. Father doesn't appear to mind that at all. Jealousy twists in Tristram's chest, and he immediately feels guilty. It doesn't concern him.  
  
Emily's aunt clears her throat pointedly and says, "John..."  
  
Doctor Watson pulls his arms back and tries to take a step away, but Father's hand on his upper arm holds him in place. "We're not finished discussing our plans for tonight," Father says without turning around.  
  
"We really are, Sherlock," Doctor Watson says, making it sound like a warning. He looks around Father's shoulder. "Are you ready to go, Tris?" he says, making his voice cheerful. "Better go get your school bag. I think it's still in the kitchen."  
  
"I'll get it," Emily offers quickly. "Go on," she adds in a whisper, giving Tristram a nudge before she goes. "Tell him it's okay."  
  
Tristram feels three pairs of adult eyes on him and knows there's no way he's going to broach the subject now. And anyway, his father would know right away that he's not telling the truth. He wants it to be true, but deep down, his heart isn't convinced.  
  
Father lets go of Doctor Watson and sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair. When he turns around, Tristram can see his face is flushed, especially around his mouth. So whatever is going on between them is, in fact, still going on. Father looks annoyed and frustrated - but that could be due to just about anything. It doesn't have to mean that he wants to be 'affectionate' but can't because other people are around. Because of Tristram.  
  
Emily comes back with Tristram's bag, her eyes asking a silent question. Tristram shakes his head. She rolls her eyes, but hands him his bag without comment, which Tristram is grateful for.  
  
They all go out to the door. Emily's aunt hands Tristram his jacket while Doctor Watson and Father are still talking.  
  
"Send me that picture when you get it," Doctor Watson tells Father.  
  
"You could still-"  
  
Doctor Watson cuts him off. "No." At first, Tristram thinks he's angry, but then he steps in close, puts his hand on Father's arm, and kisses him. On the lips. Not long, but it's more than a chicken peck. "Good night," he says firmly, smiling.  
  
Father looks like he's been caught off balance, and honestly, Tristram has too.  
  
Emily, standing next to Tristram, pokes him. He turns to her. 'Tell him,' she mouths insistently, jerking her head at their fathers. Tristram makes a helpless face at her that's supposed to mean 'I can't'. He's not sure if she understands, but at least she doesn't press the issue any further.  
  
"Is that the official announcement then?" Emily's Aunt Harry says smugly, having appeared silently next to Clara.  
  
Father glares at her, and Doctor Watson says conversationally, "Shut up, Harry." He steps back and puts his hands in his pockets. "Go on," he says to Father, tilting his head at the door. "Get out of here. We'll see you tomorrow." He's still smiling.  
  
Tristram shoulders his bag and goes to join his father. Doctor Watson puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder and rubs it as he goes past. "Good night, Tris," he says. His smile is so kind it makes Tristram feel unworthy. He mumbles something in return and follows his father outside.  
  
There's already a cab waiting for them. Father stares out the window as the driver makes his way through the evening traffic, absent in a way that says he's thinking about a case. Tristram shouldn't interrupt him. Who knows how long this case will go on for, though. And maybe Father could use Doctor Watson's help.  
  
Mrs Hudson once told Tristram about her husband, how he'd done something very bad and she'd had to choose between keeping his secret and turning him in to the police. Even though she loved him - too much, she said, sighing - she 'turned state's evidence', which is like turning Queen's evidence, only in the States. Mr Hudson was so angry when he found out that he threatened to do the same bad thing to her that got him in trouble in the first place. That's why Father had to make sure he never got out of jail. Mrs Hudson got really sad when she told Tristram that story, so he's never asked about it again, even though he's dead curious what Mr Hudson ever did that was so bad. But the point is, Mrs Hudson told Tristram that sometimes you have to do what you know is right, even if it hurts. This is one of those times.  
  
"It's okay with me," Tristram says, his voice preturnaturally loud in the enclosed space. "You and Doctor Watson," he clarifies. "If you want to... I don't mind." Tristram's heart is pounding furiously. He clenches his hands on the seat next to him.  
  
His father turns his head and observes Tristram silently for a moment. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. It doesn't concern him, after all. Finally, Father nods his head and says, "All right." There's a faint furrow between his eyes. Then he looks out the window again. Tristram lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. Is it all better now? He doesn't feel like anything's changed, but at least he's tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem quoted is [Sea Fever](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242552) by John Masefield. Thanks to thekumquat and bopeepsheep from sh_britglish on LJ for directing me to the poet.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, people. Darlings. It's beginning. Take a look at the tags and warnings. The ones that haven't been covered yet are coming now. The next several chapters are going to be traumatic. You might want to hold hands...
> 
> I owe a special debt of gratitude to ladyprydian and thissalsify for their saint-like patience in going through several drafts of this chapter and the next one, giving me tons of expert medical advice, looking up references, finding pictures to help me understand what should be happening, and being extremely good sports when I found I wasn't able to incorporate optimal medical procedures after all in some cases.

**Chapter Sixteen**

  
When they get home, Father stops at Mrs Hudson's to ask if there have been any deliveries, while Tristram goes upstairs. In the kitchen, he sees that Mrs Hudson has left not one but three pies for them on the table: some kind of custard, mince, and one with a top crust that he can't see inside. Tristram, always a fan of Mrs Hudson's pies and having left before they had time for pudding at the Watsons', gets down a plate and cuts himself a piece of the custard one. It turns out to be lemon, he discovers at the first bite. It's quite good, although Mrs Hudson's crusts are usually thicker than this. Maybe she's trying a new recipe. He scoops up another big forkful and lets the sweet, creamy smooth filling roll around on his tongue.  
  
As he slides the pie plate to the side to make more room for himself at the table, he catches sight of a brownish spot in the open angle of the pie he cut open. At first he thinks it's a pocket of jam or chocolate, or possibly a piece of fruit, but when he pokes at it with his fork, he finds it altogether solid. Curious, he digs it out, as it seems to be a singular item, the rest of the pie appearing smooth and evenly coloured. Maybe Mrs Hudson has hidden something in the pie, like the bean and pea in a Twelfth-Night Cake.  
  
It turns out to be neither a bean nor a pea, however, unless it is a very thick and burnt bean. It's not until Tristram moves it to his plate and wipes more of the custard off that he sees the fingernail and realises that the item is, in fact, a finger. Whether of flesh or a very life-like replica, he isn't certain, but something tells him this is one of those out-of-the-ordinary things that he should inform his father of. Immediately.  
  
"Father!" His voice comes out higher and more panicked-sounding than he would perhaps have liked. "Father!" he tries again, even shriller, when there is no response to his first cry.  
  
Quick, heavy steps on the stairs precede his father's entrance, his eyes alert and taking in every detail. "What is it?" He darts over to the table, hones in on the finger on Tristram's plate, sniffs, fumbles in his pocket for surgical gloves, which he snaps on, and a plastic coffee stirrer, which he then uses to roll the finger over.  
  
"They're not from Mrs Hudson, are they?" Tristram ventures.  
  
"No," his father confirms. He looks again at Tristram's plate with one eyebrow cocked, seeming to notice for the first time the partially eaten piece of pie there. "Did you eat this?"  
  
Tristram nods. His stomach feels queer now with the knowledge that he almost _ate_ that finger.  
  
"No," his father says, as if he could negate the event with the word. He pokes the coffee stirrer into the remains of the piece of pie as if he's looking for something. He then grabs Tristram's face, forcing his mouth open with his thumb so he can peer inside. "How do you feel?" he asks urgently. "Pain, nausea, cramps-"  
  
"I feel a bit sick," Tristram admits. Has the finger made him sick? His stomach roils.  
  
Father hurtles to one of the drawers and practically tears it apart until he finds what he wants, the flat plastic box containing pH test strips. Tristram used them for his soil experiment. Father takes one out and sticks the end into the part of the pie Tristram ate from. It doesn't take long for the coloured squares to react and turn the dull dun-olive combination that Tristram knows means a pH of 6.5. Is that normal for a custard pie? Father tosses the test strip aside and crouches down, grabbing Tristram by the shoulders. Hard.  
  
"Tell me what you mean by you feel 'sick'," he says, not letting Tristram look away.  
  
"Like I'm going to throw up." Tristram's lips start to quiver. He's not going to cry. Father doesn't like it when he cries. His chest feels tight, and he can taste sourness in the back of his throat.  
  
"Does it hurt anywhere?"  
  
"My chest..." Tristram's nose is prickling with the start of tears. Is he going to die?  
  
"Where? Inside where you swallowed, your heart, your lungs, your throat? Where?"  
  
Tristram shakes his head, unable to speak. If he tries to say anything he's going to cry. He can't tell anyway. Everything just feels wobbly and tight all at the same time.  
  
"Tristram, you have to tell me!" Father orders, harsher, and shakes him by the shoulders. His voice is more on edge and urgent than Tristram can recall ever hearing it, and that scares him even more than being poisoned or choked.  
  
"I don't know," Tristram bursts out, and with the words come the tears. He's sorry he ate the pie, so sorry. Now that he's started crying, he can't stop. He cries in great, heaving gasps, tears and snot running down his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," he sobs. There's viscous stuff in the back of his throat, probably from his nose running backwards, making him cough. He coughs so hard he has to bend over, and he gags at the end.  
  
He doesn't notice Father let go, but now he's back, saying, "If you're going to vomit, do it into here." Blearily, Tristram registers some kind of bowl being thrust in front of his face.  
  
Is he going to vomit? He thinks about his stomach, about the thick yellow pie filling sitting there like a huge lump of the stuff that ends up in the tissue when he blows his nose when he's sick; about the bits of dirt and germs that might be in there from the finger; and especially about there possibly being part of the finger in there too, some pieces of meat come off the bones like tender, greasy chicken, and yes. He is going to vomit.  
  
There's a lot. It's all the spaghetti from dinner too, not just the bit of pie. He forgot about that.  
  
He doesn't remember moving, but somehow he's kneeling on the floor with Father supporting him. He can feel lumpy bits in his mouth and there are long strings of viscous liquid hanging from his lips. He heaves again. He hears it hitting the metal of the bowl this time. He's pleased about that, on top of the misery. At least he got it where Father wanted it.  
  
"Any more?" Father asks after he's sat there trying to catch his breath for several seconds.  
  
Tristram considers. He feels better, actually. He shakes his head. He spits out what's left in his mouth.  
  
"Wait," Father says. Tristram has his eyes closed, but he can hear that Father doesn't go far. He's back within moments, wiping Tristram's mouth with what feels like towel.  
  
He's only half aware of Father stripping his clothes off him right there in the kitchen and piloting him to the bathroom. He is set on the toilet lid and a moment later a wet flannel is wiping his face. At the same time, he vaguely registers his father talking. It takes him a few moments to realise he's on the phone, and that it must be Doctor Watson on the other end.  
  
Then his father is talking to him, asking him how he feels. He's sore and stuffed up and his throat feels raw, but his stomach is much less unsettled now, so he murmurs that he's okay. Father makes him rinse his mouth out with water from the tap and then half-carries him out to the living room and deposits him on the couch. He's only wearing his pants and he's starting to feel chilly now, but Father's duvet is still there from that morning, so he topples over onto it and Father tucks him up in it.  
  
"Don't go to sleep," his father admonishes him. "John's coming." He goes back to the kitchen, where Tristram can hear him moving things around. "Whatever possessed you to eat a pie with a finger in it?" he asks, raising his voice enough to be heard over the clatter he's making.  
  
"Didn't see the finger 'til after," Tristram says, mumbling into the duvet. The whole thing makes him feel sheepish, now. Father would certainly never have made that mistake.  
  
After a few minutes, Tristram is feeling a bit better. He pushes himself up so his head is resting on the armrest closest to the door. From this vantage point, he can see his father's reflection in the window, bending and dancing back and forth. Every so often, he will call out to check that Tristram's still awake and alert.  
  
"How do you feel now?" Father calls out to him.  
  
"Thirsty," Tristram says. Plus, his mouth tastes foul.  
  
Father ducks his head around the divider between the kitchen and the living room. "I'd rather wait until John's checked you over before you eat or drink anything else. No blood or foreign matter so far in your stomach contents, though, that's good. But spaghetti again?" he asks in mild reproach. "For a doctor, John does tend toward a rather monotonous menu."  
  
Tristram grins and twists his head around. If his father's joking, that means he doesn't need to be quite so worried. "Do you remember when we had lasagne for two weeks in a row?" he asks. His voice comes out all scratchy.  
  
"Yes, bloody Angelo," his father mutters, retreating back into the kitchen. "I don't recall you complaining, though," he says, a bit louder.  
  
"I like lasagne!" Tristram says back.  
  
"We should take John next time we go."  
  
Tristram falls silent, because Angelo's is for him and Father. His first reaction is that he doesn't want to share it with Doctor Watson. Not even if Emily is there too (although Father didn't mention her, he assumes she would come along). But then he remembers that he told his father it was okay with him, if he wanted to … do whatever it is that he wants to do with Doctor Watson. And that doesn't just mean kissing him, it means going out on cases together, and having him here at their flat, and sitting on the couch together and laughing, and eating dinner together. Not that Father ate with them during the two days that Doctor Watson and Emily were here, but he did at the Watsons', once with Emily's Aunt Claire, once with her other aunts, and once with just the four of them. So that means he'll have to share Angelo's too.  
  
"Okay," Tristram says weakly. He doesn't know if his father heard him. Not that it matters. Father will do what he wants to either way. He pulls the blanket up to his nose and burrows down under it. It smells like his father, the same way his coat does, but sweeter, without the sour tobacco smell. He watches his father's reflection again in the gap between the curtains, but now he's sitting down and all Tristram can see in the window is the top of his head.  
  
And then right there, right in the middle of his father's head, a little yellow light flares up. It takes Tristram a moment to understand that it's not a reflection of something inside the flat, but something coming from outside. He sits up straight and unfocuses his eyes to force them to see through the glass rather than on the surface. There, again, only this time the glow is orange. It's coming from one of the windows of the building directly across from them. He immediately knows what that is. It's the bodyguard, the one Uncle Mycroft sent to watch them at Grandmother's. It doesn't look like he took Tristram's advice about the nicotine patches. He hopes he's at least where he's supposed to be this time, even if he is smoking on duty. He wouldn't want the man to get in trouble. But he won't tell. It makes Tristram feel safer after all the upset with the near poisoning, knowing that there's someone out there who's protecting him and his father.  
  
After about half an hour, the door downstairs opens and Doctor Watson's voice calls loudly, "Sherlock?" as he runs up the stairs. Tristram realises he must still have the house key that Father gave him. He wonders if Doctor Watson simply forgot to give it back, or if Father refused to take it, or if they agreed that Doctor Watson should keep it.  
  
Father comes into the living room from the kitchen at the same time as Doctor Watson does from the stairs. Doctor Watson's eyes are wide and he's breathing heavily. He is carrying a squarish, blue case. "Report," he says shortly as he makes a beeline for Tristram.  
  
"Three pies, each with a finger inside, presumably from Henry. A finger in every pie, obviously," Father says, dogging Doctor Watson's steps and looming over his back. "I assume they're letting us know that they are involved in all of the current incidents, including your wife, which we already knew. There must be something else, but what? Lemon custard, mince, and -"  
  
"Tell me your theories later, Sherlock," Doctor Watson snaps as he sets his case on the low table next to the couch and opens the latches. "I need to know about Tris! Any shortness of breath, loss of consciousness, cramping, numbness or tingling-"  
  
"No, no, nothing aside from the vomiting, and he's been fine since," Father mutters dismissively. "Lemon: what do they mean? When life gives you lemons, make lemonade; oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement's... Yes, St Clement's," he repeats and dashes to his computer, continuing to ramble on.  
  
Doctor Watson, meanwhile, has taken an instrument with a light on the end of it out of his case, which Tristram is intrigued to note has several interesting fold-out shelves and compartments, and is chock full of tools and ampules and vials and bottles. He has Tristram open his mouth and shines the light in there and up his nose.  
  
"That's going to have to wait, Sherlock," Doctor Watson says over his shoulder in response to something Father is saying. He presses his lips together into a thin line as he shines the light into Tristram's eyes. "Just look straight ahead, Tris, I'm checking if your eyes are reacting the way they're supposed to." Tristram tries to hold still and follow all of Doctor Watson's instructions.  
  
After he's done with the light, Doctor Watson lifts Tristram's hand, pinches his fingers, and takes his pulse. Then he gets out his stethoscope and listens to Tristram's chest and belly. He shakes his head as he presses his fingers carefully into Tristram's abdomen. "You should have called for an ambulance, Sherlock."  
  
"There was no time!" Father says, still busy at his computer. "And I did what they would have done anyway."  
  
"There are three hospitals with casualties within spitting distance, so don't give me that. A few seconds as soon as you realised what had happened really wouldn't have been too much to ask. What if he'd needed respiratory support or had a seizure?" Doctor Watson sighs and drops his stethoscope into his case. "I don't see any signs of impaired nerve function, haemorrhaging or cyanosis, but still. He needs to be checked out. He'll need cultures done, a check of his liver and kidney function. You said you preserved the stomach contents?"  
  
"There's nothing there," Father says, almost as if he's disappointed.  
  
"That's good if so. I'm going to give him some charcoal to be absolutely sure." Doctor Watson switches his focus to Tristram. "Tris, everything looks okay as far as I can see right now, but I'm going to give you some medicine to hopefully take care of anything you didn't get out before." He smiles reassuringly and pats Tristram's leg through the duvet. Then he reaches over to pluck a little bottle out of his case, gets up and goes to the kitchen.  
  
Tristram relaxes back against the couch. He's relieved that Doctor Watson didn't find anything wrong with him. He must have thrown up all the bad stuff.  
  
"I'm giving him fifty grams now," Doctor Watson tells Father. "It might cause some constipation in the next couple of days, and his stool will be black, but that's all perfectly normal. Make sure you tell them at the hospital anyway, they'll be able to give you a laxative for him if you're concerned."  
  
Father joins Doctor Watson in the kitchen, leaving Tristram alone. He pulls the blanket up around himself again. He can hear them continue talking, as well as the tinkling of glassware and metal.  
  
"It needs to be diluted with water," Doctor Watson says, "and he has to drink the whole thing. And I'm serious, take him to the hospital, the sooner the better."  
  
"Can't you do those tests here?" Father asks. Although Tristram recognises that it's more of a demand. "You can use my microscope, I have a wide range of reagents-"  
  
"Sherlock, I'm not- No," Doctor Watson says flatly. "I'm a trauma surgeon, moonlighting in emergency medicine. I'm not a lab technician. I do not have the expertise, and you certainly do not have the necessary equipment." He lowers his voice, but Tristram can still hear him. "This is your son, Sherlock," he says fiercely. "Why are you refusing proper medical treatment?"  
  
"I have ensured he received proper medical treatment," Father snarls. "Thus your presence. Additionally, however, it may have escaped your narrow field of attention that someone has actually been inside our flat. Someone planted these here, knowing we were out. Conclusion: we are being watched. If there is something in there, rushing out to the hospital is exactly what they expect, thus playing right into their hands. They could come back, remove the evidence while we were gone, the message delivered and received but removing any possibility of gleaning additional information from it."  
  
Tristram didn't think of that. If the pies aren't from Mrs Hudson, obviously they are from someone else. And that someone must have come inside and left them on the table. Tristram looks out the window, hoping to see the reassuring glow of the bodyguard's cigarette, but there is nothing.  
  
"So you're pretty much saying you endangered your son's life in order to protect - what, a couple of pies?" Doctor Watson says. He sounds angry.  
  
"Evidence, John!" Father barks back. "Evidence that they may not want me to have."  
  
Doctor Watson comes back into the living room, carrying two mugs. His face looks thunderous, but it relaxes slightly as he sits down on the edge of the couch next to Tristram again. Tristram can hear his father in the kitchen, banging things.  
  
"Here, can you sit up, Tris?" he asks. He sets the mugs down and puts an arm under Tristram's shoulders through the blanket to help him. It's nice, and Tristram leans into him more than he actually needs to. Doctor Watson picks up one of the mugs and holds it in front of Tristram. The liquid in it is thick and black, as if someone dumped one of his soil samples into a cup of water.  
  
"I know it looks funny, but you need to drink the whole thing," Doctor Watson tells him. "You can rinse your mouth with some plain water afterwards." He nods at the other cup on the table.  
  
Tristram lifts the mug to his mouth. Doctor Watson keeps hold of it as well, helping him. It tastes a bit like something burnt, and leaves a gritty residue in his mouth. It takes him several swallows to get it all down, and there is still black stuff all over the inside of the cup. Tristram hopes he's not meant to get that out too.  
  
But Doctor Watson just takes the mug and says, "Good job," then hands Tristram the other one. He still has his arm around Tristram. Tristram doesn't move away either while he swishes the clean water around in his mouth, then swallows that too. It helps a bit.  
  
"At least give me your opinion on these while you're here," Father says, stalking back into the living room and shoving a plate with three fingers under Doctor Watson's nose. They've been cleaned. The skin on all of them is dark, although Tristram doesn't know if that's from being cooked, or because the person they came from has dark skin.  
  
"Jesus, Sherlock, really not the time," Doctor Watson says, tightening his arm around Tristram's shoulder. He does take a second look, though. "Clean amputation, fits with your theory of the perpetrators knowing their way around these things and having proper equipment. Middle-aged, poor nutrition. Look," he says suddenly, sounding irritated and pushing the plate away. "I have to get back. I don't like leaving Emily alone with Harry and Clara."  
  
"You could have brought her along. In fact, I still think you should have stayed-"  
  
"We've been through this," Doctor Watson says tightly, then stops and looks down, shaking his head. He squeezes Tristram, then relaxes his grip and lets his hand slide away. He sighs and looks up at Father. "Have you at least let Mycroft know?" he asks, more gently. "I don't like the idea of you and Tris alone here if someone's watching the flat."  
  
"Mycroft; what can he do?" Father scoffs.  
  
"He could post a watch, like he did at your mother's. I know it's not much, but-"  
  
"I think one of his bodyguards is already here," Tristram blurts out in an attempt to smooth things over.  
  
Father and Doctor Watson both freeze and turn to him as if they'd forgot Tristram was still there.  
  
"What do you mean?" Father asks. There's something breathless and expectant about the way he says it.  
  
"The one at Grandmother's, who wasn't supposed to be smoking," Tristram explains. "I think he's here."  
  
Father is knelt down on the floor beside Tristram in an instant, his hands gripping Tristram's shoulders. "Where? In London? In the flat? Where did you see him?" His eyes are wide and his manner is urgent, much more so than when Tristram told him about seeing the man smoking under his window at Grandmother's.  
  
Tristram is unsettled. He knows Father often rails against the measures Uncle Mycroft undertakes - considering them interference - but he honestly thought Father would be pleased to hear about the bodyguard, as it would mollify Doctor Watson to know that someone was looking out for them.  
  
"Not him exactly... " Tristram qualifies his statement. "The light from his cigarette. It looked the same as-" He stops. He's not supposed to tell that he saw him in the stable. Although it won't really matter now, will it? It's not as if anything bad happened because he was sitting in there smoking rather than standing somewhere outside in the rain during his shift. Still, Tristram hedges and says, "The same as at Grandmother's. In the building across the street." He nods at the window overlooking the street.  
  
Father leaps over, standing at the side of the window and carefully nudging the curtain aside so he can look out. "Lights, John," he says in a low voice that's thrumming with excitement. Doctor Watson silently flips the light switch by the door, then goes out into the hall and turns the light off there. Finally, he must move into the kitchen, although Tristram can't hear anything, because the light goes off there too, leaving them in the dark.  
  
"Where exactly, Tristram?" Father presses him.  
  
Doctor Watson has joined Father, standing right up behind him with one hand on Father's shoulder so he can see out the window too.  
  
"In one of the windows," Tristram says. He's not sure anymore it was such a good idea to say anything.  
  
"Which one?" Father demands impatiently.  
  
Tristram can still see the window from where he's lying. It's all dark now, of course. He points anyway. "That one, right there."  
  
Doctor Watson comes over and crouches down next to Tristram, his head pressed right up next to Tristram's so that he can follow the line of his finger. He smells different than Father, but nice, too.  
  
"Third floor, looks like second from the right," Doctor Watson says. He looks back and forth between Tristram and the window, then slides his arm under Tristram's shoulders again and says calmly, "Come on, over next to the wall with me."  
  
Tristram clutches the blanket around himself and goes with Doctor Watson to stand on the right side of the window, opposite Father. Doctor Watson gently pushes Tristram down behind him. "I want you to sit right there with your back to the wall, Tris, okay? Don't move." He's still speaking calmly, but there's an iron edge to his voice that tells Tristram something is very, very wrong.  
  
Tristram's heart is beating fast now. He tucks Father's duvet over his bare feet and looks up at the two men, but they are focused on each other and whatever is outside. Whatever is going on, Father will take care of it. He said no more kidnappings and no more bombs. Uncle Mycroft's bodyguard is there to help, too. Or is it the bodyguard that Father and Doctor Watson are worried about?  
  
"What do you think?" Doctor Watson murmurs. He lifts the edge of the curtain with one finger so he can see out into the street.  
  
"They're just watching," Father says. "If they'd wanted to do anything, they could have done when we came home earlier."  
  
"Unless they were following you and weren't in position yet."  
  
"No, they've been coming and going from here freely. They've had us under surveillance for days now. Stupid!" Father chastises himself. "Why didn't I notice earlier!" He flings the curtain away and takes long, fast strides to the door.  
  
"Sherlock, where the hell are you going?" Doctor Watson says.  
  
"I'm going to pay our friend a little visit," Father says grimly, but it doesn't sound like he finds it a hardship at all. He takes his coat from the hook and puts it on.  
  
"The hell you are, you-" Doctor Watson has stepped away from the window, too, but he doesn't go far. With one hand, he points behind him at Tristram. "Your son has just nearly been poisoned - possibly been poisoned, in fact," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "He needs medical attention, you have no idea what is waiting for you out there-"  
  
Doctor Watson isn't paying attention to the window now and is standing with his back to it, but half in front it. Both he and Father were being so careful just moments ago, not to stand in front of the window. Doctor Watson made Tristram move to the wall so that he wouldn't be in front of the window either. Tristram remembers Father pulling him back from the window in his room at Grandmother's, when they were looking for the man with the cigarette. He said, 'Never put yourself in the direct line of fire'.  
  
Tristram is about to remind Doctor Watson of that, when he sees something funny on Doctor Watson's jacket, which he never took off. At first, Tristram thinks it's an insect, but it's moving too jerkily. Then it resolves into a light, just a little pinprick that dances erratically around on the black material covering Doctor Watson's back. And suddenly, Tristram knows with sickening certainty what that is. He tries to say something, to cry out, but his voice is stuck in his throat. Doctor Watson is still standing there, railing at Father, but Tristram doesn't hear him anymore. He has to do something!  
  
It turns out his body is quicker at thinking than his brain, because he sees his hand reaching up to grab Doctor Watson's jacket, to pull him back, at the same time as his legs are lifting him so he can reach. He's off-balance, though, or wobbly from the vomiting and the excitement, and he ends up sort of half-falling onto Doctor Watson, pushing him forward.  
  
And then the window explodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This web page](http://www.freepatentsonline.com/5360625.html) informs me that the pH value of custard is 6.5 - 7.5: That has to be one of the weirdest things I've ever looked up for a fic.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains potentially traumatic scenes involving violent injury to a minor. Medi-picking by ladyprydian and thissalsify.

**Chapter Seventeen**

  
Tristram is confused and embarrassed. How did he get here, lying on top of Doctor Watson's legs, wearing nothing more than his pants? He moves to get up, and that's when he registers the pain in his back and arm. It feels like someone's sticking dozens of knives into his skin. He tries to get his arms underneath him to push himself up, but his right arm collapses under him, the sudden pain in his hand unbearable. He gasps and cries out.  
  
The legs slither out from under him, dumping him onto the floor on his stomach, and the next thing he knows, there's a warm, heavy weight on top of him. It's pressing the knives further into his skin and holding him down so hard he can hardly breathe. It's also breathing hard and shouting something about taking cover. It's Doctor Watson.  
  
"Tristram!" Father shouts.  
  
"Father!" Tristram screams back, tears spilling over onto his cheeks. It's dark, and he can't see anything, and everything hurts so much.  
  
"I've got him, I've got him!" Doctor Watson shouts at the same time. "Stay down!"  
  
Then there are feet on the stairs. Going down. They belong to his father and they're moving fast. An icy chill takes up residence in Tristram's stomach. Father can't leave him like this!  
  
"Sherlock, where are you going?" Doctor Watson bellows, right in Tristram's ear, but Father's already out the door. "Fuck!" Doctor Watson swears with feeling, slamming his hand on the floor next to Tristram's head. Tristram's crying in earnest now. He tries not to, but everything hurts so much, and Father simply left!  
  
"Tris? Can you hear me?" Doctor Watson asks. His voice is low and gentle again, but still urgent. Tristram makes a sound through his sobs that could signify agreement. "All right, good. That's good," Doctor Watson says. "I'm just going to lift up. I don't want you to try to move yet."  
  
He lifts himself off Tristram a bit, sending a fresh wave of pain through his back. It feels like it's on fire. Tristram screams.  
  
"Where does it hurt?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
"My back," Tristram manages to gasp. There's his hand, too, of course, but his back is all he can think about right now.  
  
He feels Doctor Watson touching his shoulders and upper back. Tristram can tell he's trying to be careful, but it makes it hurt more. He can't help hissing and jerking away.  
  
Doctor Watson moves his fingers away. "Sorry, okay, how about your legs? Do they hurt?"  
  
Tristram tries to concentrate, tries to do what Doctor Watson wants. No, his legs don't hurt particularly. Not like his back anyway. "I don't think so," he sniffles.  
  
"That's very good," Doctor Watson praises him. "Can you move them?"  
  
Tristram finds he can move, despite the pain. He nods and shifts his legs a bit.  
  
"That's excellent, Tris," Doctor Watson says. "You're doing great. We need to get into the hall where I can see you but we have to stay down, okay? So if you can move I need you to try and scoot yourself forward, as far as the door. I'll cover you. Can you do that?"  
  
Tristram lifts his head to look toward the door. It's not far, he knows that. Normally it would only take a few steps to get there. But now, naked and cold, with his back and his hand hurting more than he thought anything could hurt, and his father gone off to who knows where, he's not actually sure he can do it. Still, he props himself up on his left elbow, crooks his right arm so that his injured hand is up out of the way against his neck, and pushes himself forward with his legs, which don't seem to have been hurt. Dirt and debris dig into his knees and elbow, but he somehow manages to drag himself forward. Doctor Watson hovers over him on all fours like a huge umbrella. Tristram is shivering now. It must be from the cold air coming in through the broken window. Tristram's back protests every time he moves, but the pain in his hand has lessened to a dull throbbing, as long as he doesn't let it touch anything.  
  
"You're doing great, Tris," Doctor Watson says. "Just a couple more metres." Tristram can hear he's trying to sound upbeat, but he doesn't manage it very well. For some reason, it brings to mind the story Doctor Watson told him earlier about Gents, and how Doctor Watson said he could never be unfeeling like that, how it always hurt him too when other people got hurt.  
  
Tristram doesn't want Doctor Watson to be upset because Tristram's hurt. He locks his teeth together and forces himself to move forward, half crawling like a frog, first his left leg, then his left elbow, then his right leg. He doesn't let himself look at anything other than the corner of the door. He only needs to make it that far, Doctor Watson said. He has no idea what's supposed to happen at that point, but he trusts Doctor Watson. Just as far as the door.  
  
Finally, finally, they are there. He collapses in the doorway. The floor is cold on his bare chest, but he is overwhelmingly relieved that it's over. He's stopped crying at some point, but his breath is still all hiccoughy and unsteady. Doctor Watson hastily crawls over him onto the landing of the stairs, grips Tristram under the arms and pulls him the rest of the way out of the living room. Tristram can't help protesting as the rough motion jostles his back and his arm, but Doctor Watson lets go of him right away and lets him lie where he is now. Tristram feels Doctor Watson moving behind him, then the door to the flat closes and Doctor Watson turns on the light in the stairway. Tristram flinches and closes his eyes at the sudden light.  
  
Doctor Watson sucks in an involuntary breath and makes a helpless little sound in the back of his throat. When he speaks again, though, his voice is steady. "All right, Tris? Are you still with me?"  
  
Tristram grunts a little as he feels Doctor Watson's fingers against the side of his neck. He's so cold now. His teeth are chattering and he can't help the tremors that are starting to shake his body.  
  
"That's great. I need you to tell me anywhere it hurts, other than your back." Doctor Watson is kneeling beside him. Tristram hears clothes rustling. He turns his head and chances opening his eyes. Doctor Watson is taking off his jacket, followed by the jumper underneath it. There is blood all over. All over Tristram. Dripping down his arm. There isn't any blood on Doctor Watson that Tristram can see, so it must be Tristram's blood. It seems a waste. Father could do so many nice experiments with it.  
  
"My arm," Tristram croaks. He can't move it; well, he probably could, but he doesn't want to. It will hurt too much.  
  
"This one?" Doctor Watson says, nodding at the arm nearest him, which is the right one. Tristram makes an affirmative sound in his throat because nodding will hurt. "Yeah, I see it. It's your hand, actually, and I'll take care of it in just a sec, but I really need to have a look at your front."  
  
Doctor Watson rolls up his shirtsleeves and takes a pair of gloves out of his case, which somehow has made it out into the hall with them. He must have picked it up as they moved through the flat. As he's putting the gloves on, Doctor Watson says, "I'm just going to roll you over like a big log, all right? Make sure there's nothing there, then we'll put you right back down. You need to hold your arm really stiff against your side like this." He demonstrates, stretching his own arm down along his side.  
  
Tristram locks his elbow and tries to press his arm in, while Doctor Watson grasps him by his shoulder and hip and tilts him up so his left arm is squished underneath him. Doctor Watson sweeps his eyes up and down Tristram's body. "Looks good," he confirms. "Just some superficial scrapes." He braces Tristram by the hip and uses his other hand to brush something off Tristram's chest, then quickly slides his jumper underneath Tristram and lets him back down. The warmth of the jumper is a huge relief. But now there's blood smeared all over Doctor Watson's glove.  
  
He must look alarmed, because Doctor Watson says, "Don't worry, it looks like more than it is. I'm going to check your head, too. Hold still." Doctor Watson runs his fingers carefully through Tristram's hair. There are several spots that feel like pins sticking into his scalp when Doctor Watson passes over them, but Tristram does his best not to make a sound.  
  
"Okay, you got some glass in there too, but it doesn't look too bad," Doctor Watson says.  
  
Glass! Not knives, but glass, from the window. That's what's stuck in his back.  
  
Doctor Watson turns and takes a couple of packets out of his case and rips them open. "I'm going to have to stop the bleeding in your hand. It might make it hurt more at first, but it's important. Do you think you can hold still?"  
  
Tristram makes a 'yes' sound and braces himself. He still can't help flinching when Doctor Watson slides his hand under Tristram's and gently lifts it so he can press some absorbent material onto it. He then wraps a long strip of some more material around it until it feels packed up and tight.  
  
"You're doing excellent, Tris," Doctor Watson says. "I'm going to try and cover you up a bit here. You look pretty chilly." He carefully drapes his jacket over Tristram's legs. It stops the cold draft there, but he's still really cold. He'd rather have something over his back. Still, it makes Tristram feel better, somehow, like when Father put his coat over Tristram so he could sleep on the couch. He's not shaking as much now as he was before, either. He wonders again where his father's gone.  
  
Doctor Watson has his phone out now. He dials, then wedges it between his ear and his shoulder as he opens more packets of white material from his case. He gives Tristram a brief, reassuring smile as he waits for whoever he's just called to answer. "You're going to be fine, Tris," he says. "I'm just going to start padding some of this glass on your back so it doesn't get bumped around anymore. I'm going to be careful, but you need to hold very still, all right?"  
  
Before Tristram can answer, Doctor Watson's manner changes abruptly to brisk and commanding as his call connects. "Yes, hello, this is Doctor John Watson and I'm at 221 Baker Street, November Whiskey One Five Romeo Tango, with an eight-year-old male, no known allergies, gunshot wound through and through to the right hand, multiple lacerations to back, head, and arms from glass shards, still embedded, working on stabilisation, bleeding minimal. Patient is alert and oriented times three, heart rate elevated one-twenty; respirations elevated, twenty-five and shallow, no abnormal chest excursions; skin cool and slightly clammy; colour and peripheral perfusion good; pressure dressing in place to GSW with normal CMS fingertips and moderate slow seepage. We also have suspected poisoning—same patient—by unknown agent according to parent report about an hour ago, spontaneous vomiting followed by my administration of activated charcoal, 50 milligrams PO, approximately twenty minutes ago. Patient responded well to medication."  
  
Doctor Watson continues to exchange information with the person on the other end, but Tristram doesn't pay much attention after he hears the words 'gunshot wound'. He was shot? Is that what's wrong with his hand? All of a sudden, he wants to see it. Did the bullet go right through? Does he have a hole in his hand that he could look through? He's curious what that might look like, although the fact that it's _his_ hand gives him an unpleasant tingly feeling in his stomach. Can they fix that? What if part of his hand got shot right off and he can't use it anymore?  
  
As Doctor Watson continues to put more bandages on his back, he hears a door open downstairs. It's Mrs Hudson's, though, not the outside door. Did his father actually go to track down the gunman? If so, Tristram would rather that Doctor Watson go help his father than stay here. Especially because Mrs Hudson is here now. Tristram can hear her, as from a distance, fussing and fluttering, but he doesn't quite register what she's saying. He expects he's closed his eyes again. It's too much effort to open them.  
  
He hears her footsteps descending the stairs again, only to return a short while later, followed by a light weight settling over him. Then someone's lifting his head and when they let go, his cheek is resting on something soft that smells like her flat: lavender and lemon. It's not a pillow; it's too thin for that. Maybe one of the little embroidered throws from her couch.  
  
It's almost pleasant now, with no one prodding at his hand or back anymore. Why isn't he in bed? Something hurts. He thinks it's supposed to be his hand, but he can't feel it, so that must be all right. He shifts a bit and that makes him remember: it's his back. He whimpers and tries to shrug off whatever they put over him, because it's making it worse, but that sends more fire through him, so he holds still again.  
  
"Tris? Come on, Tris, just a little longer. You can do it." That's Doctor Watson. Wasn't he supposed to go with Father? Tristram tries to tell him he should go find Father.  
  
He's not sure if he gets all the words out, but he must have said at least some of them, because Doctor Watson says, "Your dad will be back soon. Very soon."  
  
That's good. Father will fix whatever is hurting his back. In fact, just then he hears voices and footsteps downstairs. He makes the effort to open his eyes again, but it's not his father's familiar figure coming up the stairs. Instead, it's a man and a woman wearing big yellow coats with reflective strips over their dark green uniforms. They are carrying a big long board between them, and it develops that they want to put Tristram onto that board and take him away.  
  
This is bad, and the badness stirs him out of the half-consciousness he'd slipped into. If there's one thing Tristram knows he's not supposed to do, it's go with someone he doesn't know. He's not even supposed to go with most of the people he _does_ know. Like Emily's Aunt Claire. Although no one had told him that before. But now he knows. He wasn't supposed to leave Grandmother's house without his father or Doctor Watson, and he forgot and did it, and Father was angry. And rightfully so.  
  
"Where's Father?" Tristram asks Doctor Watson, but he's talking to the green uniform man and doesn't hear him.  
  
Tristram looks around for Mrs Hudson, but he can't find her. The green uniform woman is crouching down next to Tristram's head and peeking under Mrs Hudson's afghan (that was what she put on top of him, he sees now).  
  
She smiles at Tristram. "Hey there," she says. "What's your name?"  
  
"Tristram," he says, making an effort to focus. She looks nice, with a soft, round face and dimples in her cheeks. He doesn't want to believe that she would do him any harm, but then he'd never thought that about Emily's Aunt Claire, either.  
  
"Hi Tristram, I'm Nisha, and this is Tino." She jerks her thumb toward the man who came with her. He's alternately talking to Doctor Watson and communicating something into a walkie-talkie strapped to his shoulder. He's older than Nisha, and his eyebrows are thick and low, and he doesn't look quite as friendly as her. "Looks like you had quite some accident there," she says. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Okay," he says. "I have to wait for my father."  
  
She looks a little surprised. She turns to Doctor Watson. "Are you not the father?" she asks him.  
  
Doctor Watson looks apologetic. "No, I'm his … I'm a family friend. I happened to be here when it happened. His father just stepped out for a minute. He's probably down with the police. I'm sure he'll be right back, or else he can meet us at the hospital."  
  
"All right, well we clearly need to take him in and get this sorted, but one of his parents is going to have to come in as soon as possible so we can get consent to treat and to take care of the paperwork. I mean, unless you have legal...”  
  
“I'll get him there," Doctor Watson assures her. He sounds more certain than Tristram is. If Father is in the middle of chasing down a lead, he's not likely to want to make a detour to the hospital just to sign some papers.  
  
"All right, Tristram," she says, smiling at him again. "We're going to put you on this stretcher here and go for a ride in the ambulance. We'll turn the lights on and everything." She's trying to make it sound like a fun outing, and normally he'd be fully on board with riding in an ambulance with the lights flashing, but he apparently hasn't made himself clear.  
  
"I can't leave the house without my father," he repeats.  
  
"Sweetie, you're going to have to," she says, still kindly, but firmly. "Your dad will meet you at the hospital. We have to get you fixed up, and we can't wait for him."  
  
Tristram feels the onset of a helpless panic. He doesn't know how to explain about all the bad things that might happen if he goes with her. He looks desperately at Doctor Watson, hoping at least he will understand.  
  
"Doctor Watson..." Tristram pleads, "Father told us not to go with anyone." How do they really know that the man and the woman are from the hospital? His father's put on uniforms as disguises many times. In fact, Tristram wouldn't be at all surprised if he had the same green uniform in his closet. Maybe they are going to take him to another warehouse. Father said the people who killed Emily's mother wouldn't try to kidnap him again, but Father isn't here, and these strangers are.  
  
Doctor Watson's face, which had been showing signs of strain and frustration, suddenly crumples into understanding. "Oh God, Tris." To the woman, he says, "Could you excuse us a sec? I think I understand the problem."  
  
She nods and stands up. Doctor Watson sits on the floor next to Tristram and leans in close so he can whisper to him. "I know what you're thinking, and it's great that you're following your dad's instructions so well. He's going to be really proud of you. But I called them. Okay?" he says, giving Tristram an earnest look. "They're really paramedics, and there's really an ambulance outside waiting to take you to the hospital. It's not a trap. Do you trust me?"  
  
Tristram does. He trusts Doctor Watson. That's not the problem. It's these other people's intentions he doesn't trust. But if Doctor Watson is telling him it's okay, and he trusts Doctor Watson, then the commutative principle tells him that he should go with them. Not that he really has a choice. It's not as if he could kick or fight or get away. So he nods. Just a bit, but it pulls on something in his back, so he stops again.  
  
"That's excellent," Doctor Watson says. His voice is full of relief and praise. "You're doing brilliantly, Tris. And you are going to be fine. I promise. All right?"  
  
"Okay," Tristram murmurs. Hearing that he's going to be fine does make him feel better. He doesn't usually mind blood, but seeing it all over and knowing it's his is a bit different.  
  
Doctor Watson sits back and tells the paramedics it's all right now. Nisha comes back, and Doctor Watson holds Tristram's head steady while she tips him up just like Doctor Watson did before, while Tino slides a big board underneath him. Then they lower him onto the board and start strapping him in. Tristram doesn't like that because it presses on some of the cuts on his back, but she explains it's so he doesn't fall off while they're going down the stairs, and there's really no way around it. They also tuck another blanket over Mrs Hudson's afghan and Doctor Watson's jacket, so he's well bundled up. The board, with him on it, gets carried downstairs, where there is a stretcher waiting in the hall.  
  
Mrs Hudson is standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand on her chest and a woebegone look on her face. She reaches out to touch Tristram's cheek as the paramedics slow down to negotiate the front door. "You see to it you get better fast, young man," she tells him. "I'll be by to see you as soon as they have you settled in. You just tell your father or Doctor Watson what you need and I'll bring it. Oh, and Doctor Watson, do make sure to bring back that afghan," she adds, patting his arm. "It's my lucky one from the raffle."  
  
When they get outside, Tristram discovers that not only is there an ambulance there, its lights flashing, but two police cars as well. And best of all, he sees his father standing by one of the police cars, arguing with an officer. "Father!" he calls to him.  
  
Father looks around until he spots Tristram. He says one more thing to the police officer, then comes over to the ambulance. He arrives just as Tristram's stretcher is being loaded in.  
  
"I got shot," Tristram announces with some pride. Father's been shot before - although that was a rather bad time, not one that Tristram remembers with any fondness. But still, now they have something in common.  
  
"How is he?" Father says. His eyes remain focused on Tristram as Tino slots the stretcher into place and secures it. Father's gaze is so intent it seems that he's trying to see through the blanket covering him, but the question is clearly for Doctor Watson.  
  
"The bullet went through his hand. I didn't get much of a look, honestly, I was just trying to control the bleeding, but I think surgery is likely. The other problem is the fact that he has a back full of glass. His mobility's good, as far as I could see, but they'll know more when they can get a good look at him at the hospital. And don't forget to tell them about the poisoning. They'll need to do a full workup anyway, especially if he needs surgery on his hand."  
  
Father shifts his focus to Doctor Watson. "You can tell them all that," he says, as if this were something they had agreed on previously and it had slipped Doctor Watson's mind. "I have to stay here and make sure the police don't destroy even more evidence than they already have. I presume I can thank you for calling them," he adds bitterly.  
  
"I didn't specifically, but I did have to mention the fact that your son was shot to the dispatcher. Also, a gun goes off, there's a high probability one of the neighbours will call the police. God, are you even listening to yourself? Tristram was hit by a bullet and could have-" Doctor Watson breaks off and glances inside the ambulance, where Nisha has attached a metal clip to Tristram's finger and pulled back the blankets enough to get a blood pressure cuff around his uninjured arm.  
  
Then Doctor Watson stares hard at Father and finishes in a harsh whisper, "It could have been much worse. Do you even get that?"  
  
"Of course I 'get that'," Father retorts.  
  
"You need to go with him," Doctor Watson says, as if Father has failed to understand the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
"There is nothing I can do for him. There is, however, something I can do here. Do you 'get that'?" Father retorts snidely.  
  
"So, what, you're going to send him off alone?"  
  
"You can go with him."  
  
"I would have, if we couldn't find you, but you're here now. I have to get back to my own family. Have you considered that I might be worried sick about Emily right now?"  
  
Father takes out his phone and dials a number. When the call connects, he says, "Clara, I wonder if you'd be so good as to assure John that his daughter is fine." Without waiting for an answer, he holds the phone out to Doctor Watson.  
  
Doctor Watson takes it, and while he speaks briefly to his sister-in-law, Nisha leans out the open door of the ambulance.  
  
"Are you the father?" she asks Father.  
  
"Yes, but I'm not coming with you." He's already looking back across the street.  
  
"What about his mum?"  
  
Father frowns irritably, leaning back and craning his neck to see what the police are doing. "Tristram doesn't have a mother."  
  
"Someone has to come in," she explains patiently. "We're going to need your consent for treatment, and we won't know what that is until the surgeon's had a look. I'd like to start him on some pain relief now."  
  
Father snaps his head back to glare at her. "Oh, for God's sake. Pain relief, yes, but go easy on the morphine. Family history. I'll nofity Tristram's uncle. He has joint guardianship." Father holds his hand out to Doctor Watson impatiently, signalling for his phone.  
  
This is completely new and revelatory information to Tristram. He knows what a guardianship means, of course: it means that Uncle Mycroft, legally speaking, has the same authority as his father over Tristram. That he can sign things on Tristram's behalf, and that - should something happen to render Father incapable of caring for Tristram - there would be no wearisome procedures to ensure that Tristram could go live with Uncle Mycroft. What surprises him is that his father ever agreed to such a thing. Never mind that it's entirely practical and logical; the whole arrangement has Uncle Mycroft written all over it, and Father never agrees to any of Uncle Mycroft's ideas, or at least not without loud, vigorous, and/or sulky protests. Tristram isn't put off by the idea, in principle; he likes and trusts Uncle Mycroft, and can't think of a time when Uncle Mycroft has ever taken advantage of this newly-discovered authority.  
  
It occurs to Tristram now that Uncle Mycroft has in fact signed permission slips and absence notes for school before, and arranged for his passport when it had to be renewed when Tristram turned five. Well, Uncle Mycroft's assistant at the time took him for the photos, but Tristram remembers the assistant giving Uncle Mycroft the photos to approve along with the form to sign, because it resulted in a haircut right there in Uncle Mycroft's house by his personal barber, and an ensuing row with Father over it later. Tristram never thought twice about it - after all, Uncle Mycroft was always signing things, and anyway Tristram was probably too young then to realise what it meant - but he understands now that Uncle Mycroft has been acting as a proxy parent for probably his entire life. Which is fine and doesn't affect Tristram either way, except possibly to make things easier when he doesn't have to chase his father down for a signature. But he is just a little bit hurt that no one ever thought to tell him. Maybe Father and Uncle Mycroft both thought he knew.  
  
Doctor Watson, who had stepped away from the ambulance while he was talking on the phone, returns now that he's finished and gives Father his phone back.  
  
"Ta," he says shortly. "Em's upset, but she's fine."  
  
Father grabs the phone and immediately starts sending a text, no doubt to Uncle Mycroft. "Mycroft will take care of anything that needs to be signed at the hospital," he tells Doctor Watson.  
  
"So no one's coming with us?" Nisha asks.  
  
"No," Father says. Tristram squeezes his eyes shut in case they do something stupid like start tearing up. He's not a baby. He doesn't need his father to go with him. He knows Father is right: there's absolutely nothing he could do at the hospital. He'd just get in the way and insult the doctors and there would be a big fuss, and Tristram desperately wants him to come. Which is stupid, and not going to happen. He knows that.  
  
He can't quite see Doctor Watson's face from where he's lying on his stomach in the ambulance, but he can see his hands. They clench, then straighten out slowly, as if it's taking a concerted effort to relax them.  
  
"No, I'm coming," he says. "If that's all right? I'm not family-"  
  
"If it's okay with dad," Nisha agrees; hopefully, Tristram thinks. Tristram, guiltily, hopes too. Doctor Watson said that Emily was upset. He should really go home to be with her. Tristram knows that Emily gets anxious when she's separated from her father. But having Doctor Watson go with him would make him feel safer. And he's a doctor; he can probably really help. At least those are the reasons he allows himself to acknowledge.  
  
"Yes, fine," Father says quickly. Tristram can hear that he's already done with the conversation.  
  
"I'll text you and let you know what they say," Doctor Watson tells him. Then he leans in closer to Father - Tristram sees Doctor Watson's hand briefly brush over Father's - and says something that Tristram can't hear.  
  
"One moment," Father says to Nisha, and steps up into the ambulance. For one heady moment, Tristram thinks Father's changed his mind and is going to come with them, but he crouches down in the space next to where Tristram's strapped in, wraps one hand around the side of Tristram's head and fixes him with his sharp eyes. "I'm going to find whoever did this," he says. No, he vows. "And I am going to make them pay." Tristram has no doubt that his father will not only find whoever is responsible, but do something terrible to them. "And you're going to recover, and then we will all go and eat ourselves absolutely sick on Angelo's lasagne." Tristram assumes that last part's a joke, but his father's face is deadly serious. Maybe it's part of the vow too.  
  
Tristram tries to smile, but his lips wobble traitorously. "Okay," he agrees, not trusting his voice to more than a whisper.  
  
"Good." Father nods and goes back out, and then he's gone, off to fulfill his end of the vow. Tristram supposes he'll have to fulfill his end too, and do his best to get better.  
  
Doctor Watson hops up into the ambulance. Nisha tells him to sit on the bench across from Tristram, while she sits on a little fold-out seat near his head. Tino is already in the driver's cab.  
  
"All right, Tristram," Nisha says, turning her head so it's aligned with his. "I'm going to give you a little poke in your arm so we can get some medicine into you. Do you think you can hold really still, or should we let your dad's friend hold your hand?" She smiles while she says it, but it's clear he doesn't really have a choice. He's going to get poked either way. It's not that he minds needles. But usually when he wants some blood, he does the poking himself, or else Father does. He's not sure he trusts her not to make it hurt. Also, he remembers how it felt to shake Doctor Watson's hand. It was nice and warm and safe. He'd like to have that feeling again. But he doesn't want to look like a baby who needs coddling.  
  
Doctor Watson, though, saves him from having to make a decision by leaning forward and grasping Tristram's fingers. "I've got you, Tris," he says firmly. Tristram is so grateful it makes his throat feel tight.  
  
"His dad with the police then?" Nisha asks, as she slides the needle – surprisingly inobtrusively – into the back of Tristram's arm.  
  
"Yeah," Doctor Watson says. He purses his lips when he says it, though. Tristram recognises the gesture from playing 'Not Likely' as one of the things Emily did when she was bluffing. Tristram smiles to himself. "He does care, you know," Doctor Watson says quietly, to Tristram.  
  
"I know," Tristram mumbles. He does. He cares about lots of things, like besting people who think they're too clever to be caught, and proving his theories, and somewhere in there, Tristram. He knows.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to ladyprydian and thissalsify for invaluable medical advice. This chapter should be less traumatic than the preceding ones, but does contain some description of injuries and medical procedures.

**Chapter Eighteen**

  
The door opens. John looks up from where he's been watching Tristram's sleeping form on the far side of the bed. It's Sherlock. The arm of the guard outside the door is visible in the gap before the door falls shut again. One of Mycroft's, at least according to the message that arrived on John's phone about an hour ago. And if Sherlock's walking calmly past him, it must be the case. The room is left in the dim half-light cast by the small reading light mounted on the wall over the bed. John has tilted it so it's shining on him rather than Tristram.  
  
Sherlock looks overcaffeinated and hyperaware, his cheeks bright with colour. Not at all like a man should look at four a.m., especially one whose son was almost killed just a few hours earlier.  
  
John returns his gaze to Tristram. The boy is lying on his stomach, his head turned away, but his breathing is slow and even.  
  
Sherlock picks up another chair from the small table by the window and sets it down parallel to John's, careful not to make any noise. He sits down and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He hasn't taken his coat off.  
  
They both sit and watch Tristram for a while, not saying anything. He has a drip attached to his left hand. The other one is heavily bandaged. Bandages are also visible on his back, just above the cover that's pulled up around his shoulders.  
  
Finally, Sherlock drops his head and speaks down at his hands. "Didn't find him," he says in a low voice.  
  
John grunts a little, acknowledging he's heard.  
  
"Must have missed him by seconds," Sherlock hisses, his frustration evident in his tone. "The floor in front of the window was still warm where he'd been kneeling. He'd been smoking just minutes before as well. Tristram was spot on. He was waiting there. Waiting for the perfect - "  
  
"It took two hours to pick the glass out," John speaks over him. His voice is low, but clipped and almost painful to hear. "They were able to glue most of the lacerations but three went deep enough to need sutures. None of them came near his spinal cord, thank God, but there's probably going to be some scarring. Still waiting on cultures but they have him on prophylactic antibiotics along with the morphine." He nods at the plastic bag and pump with ampule on the IV pole. "He kept quiet through it all, but when they had to do the lavage on his hand-" John pauses to take an audible breath through his nose. "The pain killers were wearing off, and they couldn't give him any more. He was apologising. For crying." He spits out the words like an accusation. "X-ray showed the fourth and fifth metacarpals were shattered. They're going to do an MRI first thing tomorrow to get a better look before going in. Surgery's tentatively scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. The release form's there on the table." John hasn't moved a millimitre since Sherlock came in. His hands are clenching the arms of his chair.  
  
"Why didn't Mycroft-" Sherlock begins, but John breaks in again.  
  
"Sod. Mycroft," John grits out between clenched teeth. "He dropped by and gave them the medical history, but I told him I'd give him a fat lip if he signed anything. _You_ are his father. Not Mycroft."  
  
Sherlock propels himself out his chair and takes a couple of steps away from the bed, hovering between there and the table with his hands on his hips. "It was exactly for situations like this that we set up the guardianship," he growls. "Which you'd realise if you were able to drag yourself away from your self-righteous condemnation of my actions that were, incidentally, solely for the purpose of ensuring that any additional, very acute threats to either of you were neutralised."  
  
"What situations?" John hisses. "You mean ones where you leave your son in the hands of strangers after he's nearly been killed not once, but twice in the same evening, while you go sniffing cigarette smoke and inserting yourself into police investigations?"  
  
"Tristram," Sherlock says in a heavy, dark voice, as he slowly swivels back toward John, "is the only thing of any value to result from my life thus far. I do not deserve him, as I am reminded daily by everyone who comes in contact with me. I know this. I have lived every day since he was born in permanent terror that I will do something that damages him, either physically or emotionally, and yet since the moment I set eyes on him, the moment I held his fragile head in my hands and saw his pulse beating in the soft spot in his skull, I have known that I would likewise always be too selfish to do the right thing and give him to someone else, someone who would actually be able to nurture him and give him everything he needs and deserves. Knowing that, John, I did not leave him in the hands of strangers. I left him with _you_. What does that say?"  
  
John stares up at him, his eyes wide. There is silence for the space of several seconds. Finally, John whispers, "I'm sorry."  
  
"I don't need your pity!" Sherlock's face twists in displeasure.  
  
"It's not pity, it's... Jesus." John wipes his hand over his face. "Of course, you're right. Just because I don't see- I know you love him, I do. And you've done an excellent job, despite what you may think. I mean, look at him." John gestures at the sleeping boy. "He's bright, and curious, and generous, and much tougher than I'd ever have thought possible. He's... Well, he's you." John looks up at Sherlock with a tentative smile.  
  
Sherlock doesn't appear entirely pleased by the speech. He looks away. "I'd hoped he wouldn't be."  
  
John points at Sherlock. "Stop that right there. I don't know what happened to you-"  
  
Sherlock cuts him off with a glare. "Nothing happened to me."  
  
"Fine," John acquiesces easily - perhaps too easily. "But your son, lying in that bed right there, has so much to give, and doesn't know what to do with it all. If you don't want him …" John stops and looks down at his hands, now clasped between his knees. Finally, he turns back to Sherlock, continuing more gently, "If you want him to have things that you didn't, you're going to have to give him something to work with. He has no idea..." John shakes his head and presses his lips together, looking away again, as if stopping himself from saying more. "He needs to know you love him," he finally says, softly.  
  
"He knows it," Sherlock scoffs.  
  
"Does he?" John asks quietly, catching Sherlock's eye and holding it. Sherlock doesn't answer. After a moment, John shifts and sits back. "Anyway. Thank you. For trusting me. Again, I'm..." He exhales heavily. "I'm sorry for inserting myself where I have no business."  
  
Sherlock flutters his fingers dismissively and takes a step away. "It's my fault. It was an imposition on my part. I shouldn't have assumed you would go with him. You told me quite plainly you wanted to go home to your daughter, and I all but forced you-"  
  
"You didn't force me. I was happy to go. To be there for him."  
  
Sherlock looks away again, rubbing a thumb across his eyebrow. "Yes, well you can leave now. Although you may not be able to go home just yet," he adds somewhat reluctantly, as if he's anticipating a negative reaction.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Sherlock gives John an assessing look, as if trying to gauge how much he is going to be able to handle. "All right, think," he says, finally, raising a hand and tapping invisible points in the air for emphasis. "An eye for an eye. Tit for tat. Precise. A sniper bullet through a window. No, stop, back up." Sherlock wipes his invisible points away and begins again. "The organisation didn't fall apart as expected with the loss of Moran. I said we'd have a week. We had less than two days. Why?" Sherlock holds John's eyes, won't let him look away.  
  
"Someone made a power grab sooner than expected?" John guesses.  
  
"Yes, very good," Sherlock agrees, "but it turns out there was no power to grab. Or, better: the power was already grabbed before Moran died."  
  
John's eyebrows twitch toward each other. "You've lost me."  
  
"Moran - was not - the head," Sherlock says slowly and triumphantly. "Whoever it is, he's given himself away with the attack tonight. Although he may have wanted to. Everything's been meticulously planned, that much is clear. I can't believe he'd have let his hand be forced already." He turns to brace his hands on the guardrail along the side of Tristram's bed, his fingers drumming rapidly.  
  
"Sorry, what?" John asks. "How could Moran give himself away? He's dead."  
  
Sherlock tilts his head to fix John once again with his pinpoint focus. "Moran was not the head, John! Don't you see? The attack tonight, they were replicating our attack on Moran. Tit for tat!" He pushes off Tristram's bed and paces in the small space.  
  
"All right, fine, yes," John agrees. "I can see that. But why say it was me they were after? Tris was their target the first time too. And it would certainly hurt you more if he were killed."  
  
Sherlock flaps his hand. "Immaterial. They haven't been trying to hurt me, or to make me back off. In fact, if anything I'd say they're trying to gain my attention."  
  
"Well, it certainly seems to have succeeded."  
  
"Yes, isn't it fantastic?" Sherlock clenches his fists in excitement, then tuts when he sees John's face. "Oh, not like that. Of course I'm infuriated that Tristram was hurt, and that you were targeted in the first place."  
  
"You keep saying that, but I still don't see-"  
  
"The right-hand man," Sherlock says, slapping the back of his right hand against the palm of his left for emphasis. "Moran was the right-hand man. Or second-in-command, deputy, front man, what have you." He wiggles his fingers to demonstrate that the distinction isn't important. "Certainly in a position of some authority, perhaps important to the real leader in some personal way. But not the one in charge. In order to achieve a perfect retaliatory strike for killing Moran-"  
  
"They have to kill me," John finishes the sentence, breathless with the impact of the implication. "Brilliant." John's eyes glitter at Sherlock in the semi-darkness. "Although I'm not sure any of those titles really fit me," he adds self-deprecatingly.  
  
"Close enough. Close enough for the message to get across, anyway."  
  
"So Tris-" John begins, glancing at the sleeping boy.  
  
"Unfortunate casualty," Sherlock says shortly, falling once again into the chair beside John.  
  
John shakes his head. "He fell against me. I don't even know what happened, why he moved. He would have been safe if he'd stayed against the wall like I told him to."  
  
"And you'd likely be dead."  
  
John stares at Sherlock for a moment as that knowledge sinks in, then looks away. "My God... If I hadn't come over..." he whispers.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. "It was my fault," he says quietly. "I should have realised it from the first message."  
  
"And the pies? How could they have known you'd call me, rather than taking Tris directly to hospital?" John wonders.  
  
"I don't think they ever intended anyone to eat those. Certainly no one would have if I'd seen them first. Ergo, I don't believe they contained any poison. I wasn't able to discover anything in the initial testing I did in the kitchen. I've sent some samples to a contact of mine who'll run them through the mass spectrometre in the morning, but I expect they'll come back clean. I couldn't take the chance, though."  
  
"Yeah, no. I wouldn't have either. It sounds like they were expecting me, though, with the sniper set up across the street. How'd they know I'd be there if not for a medical emergency?"  
  
Sherlock hesitates a moment before answering: "It's not really a leap. We haven't been apart since last Wednesday. You and Emily all but moved in this week-end."  
  
"God, when you put it like that..." John winces and shoots Sherlock a quick, embarrassed smile. Sherlock ducks his head, but he's smiling too.  
  
John lifts his hand and carefully places it on top of Sherlock's where it's resting on the arm of his chair. "I can't go back home," he says soberly, his eyes resting on their hands.  
  
Sherlock spreads his fingers to allow John's to slot down in between them. "I would advise against it. At least until this is dealt with."  
  
"The guard outside-" John glances toward the door.  
  
"-is for you, yes."  
  
"I presume you and Mycroft have a plan."  
  
"Mycroft, mostly," Sherlock says sourly. He flips his hand over to grasp John's. "There's a safe house. He wants you secured before sunrise. I would prefer to keep you in circulation."  
  
"Use me as bait, you mean," John corrects him, but he's smiling gently.  
  
"Make the best use of your skills," Sherlock corrects him back.  
  
John squeezes Sherlock's hand. "I don't want to run away. But I have to think of Emily. I'd endanger anyone around me, even if they aren't a direct target. We saw that tonight. I don't want to leave her behind, though. They'd try to take her in order to draw me out."  
  
Sherlock nods slowly, his eyes caught by the sight of their joined hands. "Possible."  
  
"No, I..." John exhales heavily. "I think I'd better go, take her with me."  
  
"You could send her alone with Mycroft..." Sherlock suggests. "With you out in the open, there would be no reason to go looking for her."  
  
John makes a negative sound in his throat. "She's been through enough. I'm not going to do that to her. She stays with me."  
  
"We could-" Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off.  
  
"No. I'll go. Just for a day or two. Maybe they'll change their game plan in the meantime, make all of this moot. Or you'll figure out what the hell they're after in the first place." John rubs his thumb slowly back and forth over the side of Sherlock's hand.  
  
For a while, the silence is broken only by faint laughter wafting in from the nurse's station down the hall. Then, as if he's suddenly awakened from a trance, John inhales sharply. He withdraws his hand from Sherlock's and stands up. "I'll erm..." he says in a low voice, standing with his back to Sherlock. "I'd better be going."  
  
Sherlock stands too. "Yes."  
  
John nods, once, then walks around the bed to the door. Sherlock stays where he is, his arms hanging at his sides, as if he's not sure what to do with them.  
  
Just as John reaches for the door handle, Sherlock says, "John-"  
  
He pauses and turns halfway around.  
  
"I never meant for you to be dragged into this so far," Sherlock says.  
  
John shakes his head and looks away, but when he raises his eyes to Sherlock's again, it's with a wry smile. "It's one hell of a mating dance, I'll give you that."  
  
Sherlock huffs out a laugh. He starts to move, his body turned to walk around the bed, but John's already turned away and opened the door.  
  
"All right, let's go," he says to the bodyguard. The door falls shut behind him.  
  
Sherlock stands there for a few more seconds, then lowers himself to the chair John was sitting in before. He takes out his phone and taps out a message. Once he's sent it, he says quietly, "I know you're awake."

  
&&&&&&

  
Tristram considers attempting to continue the ruse that he's asleep, but he knows his father would rather be out following leads and tracking down clues. Plus, the conversation has given him quite a lot to think about, and he'd rather do so without his father in the same room, listening in. He knows his father can't really hear what he's thinking, but sometimes it's so eerily close that it makes Tristram feel self-conscious about thinking anything at all.  
  
He turns his head carefully. His neck is stiff, his back feels hot, and everything throbs in a strange, dull way. He blinks his eyes open, only to see his father's glittering pale eyes staring down at him.  
  
"You don't have to stay," Tristram says in the hushed tone people use when it's the middle of the night, even though everyone in the room is wide awake.  
  
Father slouches down more firmly in his chair, frowning at his phone, which he's holding up in front of his face. "No, I don't."  
  
Tristram waits, but his father doesn't move, other than to occasionally tap his finger against the screen. Tristram expects he'll leave once he's done looking through his messages or whatever it is he's doing, but instead, after a while, he says, "What did you see?"  
  
Tristram isn't sure what he means. Just now, when Doctor Watson was here? "Nothing," Tristram tells him. He had his eyes closed and his head turned the other way, trying to keep his breathing slow and even like Father taught him. Apparently he needs to practise feigning sleep more, or to ask for some additional pointers. Why does Father want to know what he saw? Were they kissing at the end, when they were both quiet?  
  
Father lowers his phone and turns to Tristram. "At the flat," he clarifies. "You saw something that made you move away from the wall."  
  
"There was a light on his back. Like a laser pointer." Father has one - or had one at some point, anyway - that he uses to help him figure out trajectories and angles of sight.  
  
"You were trying to push him out of the way." It's a moment of realisation, but Father doesn't seem very surprised. Perhaps he suspected it.  
  
Tristram starts to nod, discovers it hurts to do so, and whispers instead, "Yeah." Did he mess up? Doctor Watson did tell him to stay by the wall. He forgot about that in his panic. If he hadn't moved, he almost certainly wouldn't have been hurt. But maybe Doctor Watson would have been.  
  
This is one of those times when Tristram suspects his father may well be able to read his mind, because he says, sombrely, "You very likely saved his life."  
  
Tristram is relieved his father doesn't say anything about not doing what he was told (again!). In fact, he goes on to add, "Thank you." There's something in his voice, something deep and thick, that imbues the simple phrase with much more meaning than the words alone. Tristram feels something swelling in his chest, something equally deep and thick, but it's good. Very good.  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
Father crinkles his eyes. It's the special almost-smile that he only uses on Tristram. Not even Mrs Hudson has ever been on the receiving end of it. That Tristram's seen, anyway. "Next time," Father says, "try not to get shot."  
  
Tristram's smile isn't nearly as guarded. "Okay."  
  
Father slides his phone into his pocket and settles back in the chair. Perhaps he really means to stay. Tension that Tristram wasn't even aware of drops out of his body. "Was it the bodyguard?" he ventures to ask.  
  
"You mean the same person you saw under your window? I don't know. Yet," Father says, as if it's only a matter of time before his suspicion is confirmed. "I picked up some hairs and an ash sample from the room across the street. I'll need to compare the ash to what I found on the path at Llanbroc. Either way, however, he wasn't one of Mycroft's men."  
  
That gives Tristram a very unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Who was he?"  
  
"I don't know yet. One of Moran's."  
  
There's that Moran again. The one whose killer Father is trying to find. But what does Doctor Watson have to do with it? Why would they want to hurt him? Especially if, as Father said, they're not trying to get Father to do anything or stop investigating. It was something about a right-hand man, but Tristram didn't quite follow that part. No matter, he knows what he needs to do now, even if he's afraid he's about to draw his father's displeasure.  
  
"I saw him," Tristram confesses. "The man who was under my window. I saw him another time too, before tonight."  
  
Father's attention instantly leaps to Tristram's face. "Where?"  
  
"In the stable at Grandmother's."  
  
Father appears to take a moment turning that bit of information over, but the connection comes to him quickly: "That morning when you went out..."  
  
"He was nice!" Tristram says defensively, even though he knows it won't help much. "He told me he was there to protect us."  
  
Father's eyebrows draw together. "Why didn't you tell me this before? I could have prevented this entire thing from happening!"  
  
That's exactly what Tristram was afraid he would say. "I didn't want him to get in trouble!" he tries to explain. "You said Uncle Mycroft would draw and quarter him for smoking on duty."  
  
"He wasn't one of Mycroft's men!" Father snaps.  
  
"I didn't know!" Tristram almost wails. There's a treacherous tightness in his throat that he tries to swallow past.  
  
Father tips his head back and closes his eyes. His nostrils are flaring and his mouth is thin and hard. Tristram feels awful. All because he went out on his own without permission. And Father had told him to report back anything that was out of the ordinary. A strange man hunkered down in Grandmother's stable at dawn certainly counts, Tristram sees now. He knew it then, too, to be honest, but he was trying to do the right thing and be helpful.  
  
Finally, Father opens his eyes and faces Tristram again. "Tell me everything," he says. "Every detail. Every word."  
  
Tristram tries to recall the scene in the stable from that morning. He tells about seeing the light in the window and smelling the cigarette. About the hat and the mice and the plastic bag with the cake, and about the man keeping the stub end of his cigarette. He has a harder time remembering the man's exact words, but he does know that he asked which room Doctor Watson was in - an obvious red flag now in retrospect - and what their plans were for the day, and he's absolutely sure that the man said he'd watch out and make sure nothing happened to Tristram. Maybe it's not the same man. Lots of people smoke.  
  
Just then there is a knock at the door. Tristram's heart leaps into his throat. Father is out of his chair and around the end of the bed in an instant, but it's just a nurse, coming in to check Tristram's vitals and replace the nearly-empty IV bag. Father hovers and watches her every move with an eagle eye while Tristram tries to hold still and cooperate. He can't do much more than hold still anyway.  
  
She also asks about permission for the surgery on Tristram's hand (something else he doesn't want to think about right now). The papers are still on the table, unsigned. Father elbows her aside and scribbles his name down in a very put-upon way, then stalks back over to the chair beside Tristram's bed. She gives him an odd look, but gathers everything up and says the doctor will be in later in case Father has any questions. Tristram wishes Doctor Watson were still here. He rather thinks Father wishes the same thing, if perhaps for different reasons.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ladyprydian and thissalsify for acting as medical advisors for this chapter.

**Chapter Nineteen**

  
Tristram is bored. There is, as usual, nothing on the telly. Uncle Mycroft's assistant brought him an e-reader loaded with a couple hundred books, many of which are pretty interesting, but Tristram's tired of reading. It's basically all he's done since the surgery. There's a play room down the hall with more games and books and toys, as well as the potential for diversion in the form of other children - even if they don't want to interact with him, he has always enjoyed observing - but it also has lots of windows and no curtains. So aside from the times when an aide comes to take him on a couple of circuits of the inner corridors, he stays in his room. It's funny, because the walks are meant to improve his circulation, and it's actually him circulating, not just his blood. He tried to explain that to the lady who went with him the first day, but either she didn't understand English very well or Tristram didn't explain it right, because she just gave him an odd look. He didn't try to explain it again after that.  
  
His right hand is in a cast that extends halfway up his forearm, so he has to use his left hand for everything. However, the IV is still attached to his left arm, so he has to move slowly and be careful not to get the line caught on anything. This makes him feel clumsy and awkward and cross. At least he's allowed to sit up now, although he's not supposed to lean his back against anything, not even the pillow, because of the bandages. A nurse comes to change them for him once a day and check for infection. The nurse who checked him earlier today said the cuts are healing nicely, which makes Tristram oddly proud. Although he doesn't have much control over his body's healing processes, it makes him feel like he's upholding his end of the vow his father made to him.  
  
His hand is another story. If he were Harry Potter, he could just take a dose of Skele-Gro and have it all fixed by tomorrow. But as he isn't, they had to put some metal rods in until the bones can grow back. That's incredibly cool but apparently going to take a long time.  
  
Along with the e-reader, Uncle Mycroft's assistant brought a bunch of things from the flat, including several changes of clothes (soft, loose things that can go on over his cast and bandages), his phone (Tristram asked for it specifically), and some notebooks and things to write with. Tristram pointed out the uselessness of the latter to his father, given the state of his dominant hand. He expected his father to commiserate and make a derisive comment about the idiocy of the population in general and Uncle Mycroft's employees in particular, but instead, he said this was an excellent opportunity for Tristram to learn to write with his left hand. One never knew when such a thing might be useful, and he is going to have the cast on for seven weeks.  
  
Apropos, Tristram is going to have a massive amount of work to catch up on when he is able to return to school, and penmanship counts. So he's been diligently practising. He's not very good yet, so he asked Mrs Hudson to help him write a letter back to Emily. Well, he told her what to write, and she wrote it.  
  
Oh yes, there was a letter from Emily, also delivered by the assistant. It said:

> _Dear Tris,_
> 
> How are you? My dad told me you got shot in the hand and got some cuts on your back. But that the doctors fixed it. I hope you are felling better. We are fine. Its nice here. My dad said I can't tell you where we are. Theres a huge telly with lots of games. My favourite is Mario Kart 3. I beat my dad so much he dosen't want to play anymore. I wish you were here!! Last night we had pizza for dinner. Don't read the goblet of fire without me!!! Get well soon!!!
> 
> Love, Emily

Tristram's letter back to her is on the table now, waiting for Uncle Mycroft's assistant to come pick it up. Mrs Hudson's been to visit every day. She brought along a deck of cards the first day, but it's pretty much impossible for him to play anything with just one hand, so they usually just talk a bit and watch one of her soaps.  
  
An orderly comes in with Tristram's dinner. She puts the covered plate on the table for him and asks if he needs help getting up so he can eat.  
  
Tristram thinks he can manage. He's been up to use the loo several times by himself already, so he says it's fine, scooting himself to the edge of the bed to demonstrate. He just has to mind the IV line and remember to take the pole with him. She smiles and tells him to use the call button if he needs anything, then leaves.  
  
Tristram makes his way over to the table, being careful not to let the wheels of the IV stand get caught on the legs of the bed or the chair next to it. He sits down gingerly on the chair at the table and makes sure the IV line isn't bent or wedged in anywhere. He hopes there's chocolate pudding again, like there was last night.  
  
Tristram lifts the lid off his dinner plate and freezes. That is most certainly not chocolate pudding. The teeth he recognises right away, even with the long, curved roots, still bloody. It takes him a bit longer to identify the rectangular strip of greyish material, oozing red everywhere. It's the hairs that finally clue him in. That is a piece of skin. Not the thin, papery flakes that peel off when you get sunburnt, or the dry curls you can pick off around your nails, or even the rubbery, white flaps you can sometimes pull off a blister if you time it right. It's like a slice of turf, thick and layered, with the top side polite and neat and the bottom all full of twisted, dripping things.  
  
Tristram does not scream. He does not make a sound. He does check that the curtains are drawn tight; they are, as they always are, even during the day, at Tristram's request. Insistence, really. Tristram knows the thin piece of material won't stop a bullet, but at least this way anyone who might be outside can't pinpoint his precise position in the room. His singular thought beyond that is that he has to contact his father. He usually arrives just as visiting hours are ending for the day, and then stays overnight, sitting at the table clicking away on his laptop or sitting hunched over his phone in the chair by Tristram's bed. It's pretty much like a typical evening at their flat, actually, from the days when Tristram had taken to sleeping on the couch, only without the violin. But he isn't there yet, and probably won't be for a couple of hours.  
  
Tristram sets the lid back down over the plate with the utmost care. His heart is careening out of control. Doctor Watson told him and Emily to keep their phones with them at all times. Not to leave them in their jackets or bags. Again, Tristram has failed to heed that advice. He will have to make it over to the closet, where his bag is hanging. He needs to keep an eye on both the door and the window, though, and as he doesn't have eyes on both sides of his head, he's unable to move. Finally, he decides the door is the more immediate concern, so he angles himself such that he has a clear view of it and pushes the chair back from the table. It bumps into the IV stand, and the line gets caught on the corner of the chair arm, so by the time Tristram is finally free and standing, he's sweating lightly under his t-shirt.  
  
Keeping close to the wall, Tristram moves as quickly as he can to his bag. It takes forever for him to get the plastic squeeze clasp open one-handed. He has to resort to using his teeth. The phone is powered off, and for one heart-stopping moment, Tristram realises he hasn't recharged it since he's been in hospital, but it lights up right away when he presses the power button. It takes another eternity to boot up. When he presses 1, he notes that his hand is shaking.  
  
"Tristram?" his father answers almost immediately, his voice sharp.  
  
"Teeth and skin," Tristram says, because that's the message. That's the important part. To his horror, his voice is shaking too. He hopes his father understands what he's trying to say.  
  
"Where are you?" Father barks out.  
  
"At the hospital. Someone put two teeth and a piece of skin on my tray." He focuses on remaining calm. Like Doctor Watson said Gents could do. Like his father does.  
  
"Are you alone?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you hurt?"  
  
Tristram knows his father means any new injuries, not his hand or his back, so he answers, "No." Being able to answer Father's simple questions promptly and accurately makes Tristram feel a bit better. A little more in control.  
  
"Listen to me carefully," Father says, speaking quickly. "I want you to put your shoes and your jacket on and get into the closet. It may be a tight squeeze, but you'll fit. Pull the door all the way closed. Go do that now."  
  
Tristram does not question his father. He will do exactly as he is told. He wedges his phone between his shoulder and ear so he can use his one good hand to take his shoes out of the closet and slide his feet in. Then he takes his jacket down from the hook, only to be confronted with the next problem: the IV line. He could probably get his left arm into the sleeve and drape the rest of the jacket over his right shoulder, but he won't be able to get the IV stand into the closet. Plus, the entire point of the exercise, he reckons, is so that no one will see him if they give his room a cursory check. Having an IV line hanging out of the closet would be a dead giveaway.  
  
"I can't," he says desperately to his father. "The IV..."  
  
"Damn, I forgot about that. Take it out." Tristram can hear from the jostling in his father's voice that he's on the move.  
  
"I can't-" Tristram says, eying the device lodged in his arm with trepidation.  
  
"It's easy," his father says in a tone that means he's losing his patience. "I've done it many times. Remove the tape and pull the port straight out. It may bleed a bit, so have a tissue ready and press it on the spot for a couple of minutes. You can do this, Tristram. It's very important. I'm on my way and I've alerted Mycroft, but it's going to be a while before either of us can reach you. Once you have the IV out, leave the stand with the loose line by the door. Make sure the door can open without bumping into it. That should be enough to fool the average idiot into thinking you've left." In other words, most people. Tristram hopes that whoever put the teeth and the skin on his tray are 'most people'.  
  
He looks at the blue plastic valve sticking out past the plastic patch, like a see-through plaster, holding everything down. When he needs to change his clothes, the nurse somehow unhooks the IV line there, and then re-attaches it. Surely he could do that.  
  
"Have you done it?" Father asks. His voice has a different, more distant quality to it now, and Tristram can hear the sounds of traffic in the background.  
  
"Can't I just unhook it and leave the rest in?"  
  
"Unhook it with what? Your teeth? Do as I say! Peel the adhesive off with your teeth and then pull the whole thing out. Make sure you keep it straight, and do it quickly. Now!" Father is right. He can't use his right hand at all, he obviously can't use his left to fiddle with anything on that arm, and he doesn't have enough finesse with his teeth to close the valve without possibly dislodging the part that's in his hand anyway.  
  
Tristram hears footsteps out in the hall. Not the soft shoes of the nurses and orderlies; hard, brisk heels hitting the polished floor. It could be anyone, of course: someone visiting another patient, even Uncle Mycroft. He drops the jacket and puts the phone onto one of the shelves in the closet, then gets his teeth under the corner of the adhesive patch. He pulls as carefully as he can, but it jostles the catheter. He has to stop and get another hold, and then it comes away. He drops the patch into the closet. The footsteps in the hall have gone silent, but there are voices. He can do this. Father said he'd done it himself lots of times. He wouldn't tell Tristram to do it if it was beyond Tristram's capabilities, or if it would somehow make him sick or injure him even worse.  
  
"Tristram?" he hears his father's voice faintly coming from the phone on the shelf.  
  
"I'm working on it," Tristram says, hopefully loud enough that his father can hear him. "I have the plaster thing off."  
  
"Quickly."  
  
Tristram bites down carefully on the plastic tubing and draws his hand back as steadily as he can. It hurts-it hurts-it hurts! He gasps but manages not to drop the tubing, and then he is free. He did it! It's bleeding, but not too much. He forgot to get a tissue. He presses the back of his arm against his cast instead. "It's out!" he says, loud enough so his father can hear him, he hopes.  
  
"The IV stand!" Father reminds him.  
  
Still pressing the back of his left arm against his cast, Tristram shoves the stand toward the door with his foot, remembering to leave room for the door to swing open, then dashes back to the closet. There are four compartments on top of each other, each about half a meter on a side. His clothes and other sundries are distributed amongst them. He quickly sweeps everything out of the bottom compartment and stuffs it all in the next one up, grabs the phone, and kneels down. The jacket is still lying there on the floor. He puts it on and backs himself into the bottom section of the closet. It's a very tight squeeze, and the shelf above him scrapes his back as he squirms his way in. The jacket gives him an extra layer of padding, but he still hopes he hasn't torn open any of his cuts. He tucks his injured hand in against his chest and grasps the bottom edge of the door to pull it shut as far as he can. It bumps against his knee, leaving a crack of light, but he can't get himself any further into the closet. It will have to do.  
  
"I'm in," he says breathlessly. He doesn't have room to raise the phone to his ear, so he just holds it in front of his face.  
  
"I'm at Victoria right now, getting into a cab," Father tells him. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay where you are."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Tristram hears his father tell the cab driver where to go. Then he addresses Tristram again. "Don't talk anymore. Tap the phone once with your fingernail for yes and twice for no. If you hear anyone come in, tap three times. Do you understand?"  
  
Tristram taps the phone once.  
  
"Good. Did you see who brought the tray in?"  
  
 _Tap._  
  
"Was it a member of the hospital staff?"  
  
 _Tap._  
  
"Someone you'd seen before?"  
  
 _Tap._ She'd brought him his dinner the previous night as well. Was she one of the bad guys? Should he have noticed something about her then?  
  
"Was there anything else on the tray?" Father asks. "Any other objects, a note, anything?"  
  
 _Tap tap._  
  
They continue in this vein, and Tristram actually begins to relax and enjoy the game. Father gives him updates of his estimated time of arrival, and he's still four minutes away when Tristram hears the door open. He taps three times on his phone. Father doesn't respond right away; maybe he tapped too fast or too light? He repeats the signal, trying to keep his finger steady. What is he supposed to do?  
  
His father answers: "Someone's with you?"  
  
 _Tap._  
  
"All right... all right. Stay where you are. If they find you, don't fight them. Do whatever they say. I can see the hospital and will be there in two minutes."  
  
"Tristram, it's me," the female voice of the visitor says. It's Uncle Mycroft's assistant! But Father said he alerted Uncle Mycroft, not his assistant. She might be a false ally, like Emily's Aunt Claire was.  
  
Tristram remains silent. He hears her shoes clicking further into the room. The light shifts as she comes closer. Tristram tries to pull himself even further into the closet.  
  
"It's all right, you can come out," she says. Her shoes stop in front of the closet. She opens the door.  
  
Due to the angle his head's wedged in at, all Tristram can see are her shoes and her sheer black-stockinged legs from the knees down. She has on high heels, black, with sparkly bits. They look very fancy and utterly impractical. She drops down into a crouch to peer at him. She's wearing a sparkly black dress and her hair is piled up on top of her head with sparkly pins in it, and her face is made up with dark colours. She gets a little line between her eyebrows when she sees him.  
  
"God, you poor kid," she says, sounding half pitying and half amused. She holds out her hand to him. "Come on, out you come."  
  
Father said to do whatever she said, so he does. It would actually be easier for him to get out of the closet without holding her hand. He ends up sort of half falling out onto the floor.  
  
"Is that Mycroft's peon?" Father's voice says from the phone. He sounds annoyed.  
  
Tristram isn't exactly sure what a peon is, but he understands the context well enough to know that Father means the woman standing in front of him. He's been told to call her Miss Smith, although he suspects that's not really her name.  
  
Tristram taps the phone once to answer his father's question. Then he realises that he can probably speak again now, and adds, "Yes."  
  
"Put her on."  
  
Tristram hands his phone to her. She lets go of Tristram and stands up, listening to Father. Tristram struggles into a sitting position. His neck hurts from being bent in an unnatural position, his back hurts from being pressed against the side of the closet, and his right hand just hurts, period. It occurs to him that the IV was probably delivering a steady dose of pain medication, which he is now cut off from.  
  
"He's fine," Miss Smith - or whatever her name is - says. She walks away from Tristram and gives the room a quick sweep, checking under the bed, ducking into the bathroom, and flicking the curtains back to peek behind them. "He's on a plane to- Well, I can't tell you to where," she tells Father in a bored tone, apparently in answer to another question, "but he's on a plane."  
  
She must mean Uncle Mycroft. Tristram scoots back against the wall and pulls his knees in, making sure there are several pieces of furniture between himself and the window, and that he isn't in a direct line of sight to the door.  
  
She wanders over to the table and hooks her red-varnished fingernail under the handle of the lid covering the special message for Father. Tristram doesn't get further than thinking that Father will be unhappy if she picks it up when the door opens and Father's voice says sharply, "Don't touch that!"  
  
She looks around with a cool smile and lowers the phone. "Sherlock."  
  
"Prints," Father chides her as he strides into the room, already pulling on a pair of examination gloves.  
  
Tristram is so relieved he nearly jumps up to throw himself at his father, but instead he hugs his own knees tightly with his good arm.  
  
"Thank you for coming, now please leave," Father says to the assistant. Without waiting for a response, he comes over to Tristram and crouches down in front of him. He puts one hand on Tristram's knee. "You're all right."  
  
Tristram nods. "I didn't eat any of it this time."  
  
He intends for it to be a completely sober statement of fact - perhaps even a reassurance that he's learned from past mistakes - but Father grins as if he's made a joke. "Good." Father then bounces back up and rubs his hands together. "Let's see what we have then." He steps over to the table but doesn't lift the lid from the plate yet. "I said you could leave," he mentions over his shoulder to Uncle Mycroft's assistant, who's still there.  
  
"You're not my employer," she returns archly.  
  
"No, but I'm Tristram's father and I would like you out of his room."  
  
"I walked out on the Royal Ballet and a dead sexy Swede to check on your son." Tristram finds it interesting how she nearly always manages to sound both amused and condescending.  
  
"I'm certain my brother will _compensate_ you." Father's lip curls a bit when he says that, as if the notion is in some way personally offensive to him.  
  
Her lip curls as well, but the effect is more one of smugness than sneering. "Doctor Watson says... well, nothing about you, really. He did ask after Tristram." Her head tilts toward Tristram, who's still huddled on the floor. She smiles at him, but it's a fake-sad smile, and Tristram thinks it's meant more for Father than for him. And while he's flattered that Doctor Watson wanted to know how he was doing, Tristram finds it odd that he didn't say anything about Father. Did they have a row because of Tristram being shot?  
  
Father rolls his eyes. "My God, is Mycroft feeding you these lines?"  
  
At the mention of Doctor Watson, Tristram now also remembers the letter Mrs Hudson helped him with. "Could you please take a letter for Emily?" he asks before the assistant can leave. "I left it on the table."  
  
She smiles at him. This time it's a real one. "Sure." She sets Tristram's phone on the table, and in return plucks the envelope up. She taps it once against the plastic lid that's still covering the plate. "Any messages from you I can pass on?" she asks Father innocently.  
  
"You can tell him to piss off," he mutters, his fingers twitching on the handle of the lid.  
  
She chuckles. "I'm not sure Doctor Watson will appreciate that."  
  
Tristram isn't either. This is sounding worse and worse. Does Father blame Doctor Watson that Tristram was hurt? But that wasn't his fault! And he helped Tristram afterwards, even came to the hospital with him. Did much more than Father, to be honest. Maybe that is the source of their disagreement this time?  
  
"Out!" Father growls. She winks at Tristram and walks out, giving the impression that it's completely coincidental to Father's order.  
  
As soon as the door swings shut behind her, Father whips the lid off with a flourish, as if he were revealing a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Maybe, to him, it is. Tristram can't see the contents of the plate from where he's sitting, but he can see his father's face. His eyes glitter with possibilities.  
  
"Teeth and skin," he murumurs, "teeth and skin." He closes his eyes and tilts his head, as if he's listening to something. "Skin and bones, skinflint, skin...sink! Sink your teeth in... no, no, no, skin and teeth, skin and teeth..." His eyes pop open. "By the skin of your teeth." The pleased expression at having solved the puzzle dissolves quickly into a grimace of distaste. "Oh, please. Yes, we knew that already." He covers the plate again and slides it off the table, balancing it on one hand. Only then does he look at Tristram again. "Let's go," he says and starts for the door.  
  
Tristram scrambles to his feet. "Are we leaving?" he asks. Is he even allowed to leave?  
  
Father stops in the middle of the room. "You can't think I'm going to leave you here. There's no reason for you to stay any longer, anyway. You can continue healing at home as well as here, and there's no sense you expiring of boredom in the meantime."  
  
That makes sense. Tristram's left arm has a smear of blood down it where he pulled out the IV, but it's stopped bleeding. His back's still throbbing from scraping it on the closet, but maybe Mrs Hudson can re-do the bandages when they get home. And he's going to have the cast on his right hand for seven weeks. He certainly doesn't want to sit in this room for seven weeks waiting for it to heal. But above all, Tristram would much rather be at home, surrounded by familiar things and smells and sounds. At home with Father, and his violin, and the tent that Doctor Watson built for him and Emily. Tristram hopes his father hasn't taken it down.  
  
"Can I take my things?" he asks, reaching for his bag from the shelf in the closet.  
  
"We'll have someone send everything later," Father says. He is clearly impatient to analyse the new evidence.  
  
Tristram doesn't want to hold him up, but he needs that phone. He quickly retrieves it from the desk, along with the notebooks he was practising left-handed writing in, and stuffs them into his bag. "Okay, I'm ready."  
  
"Good. Stay close to me and do not speak to anyone." Father holds the door open for him, and they go out into the hall. Tristram expects he's going to have to stretch his legs to keep up with Father, as usual, but Father adjusts his stride and keeps Tristram close by his side.  
  
Rather than heading toward the lifts across from the nurse's station, Father leads them to a door with a green 'Emergency Exit' sign on it. It also has a red bar on the handle that Tristram knows will trigger an alarm if it's depressed. There's a key hole in it, though, and Father already has one of his lockpicking tools in his hand. There can be no doubt by now that Tristram is not actually supposed to be leaving the hospital, but Father knows when it's best to take an unofficial route. This is obviously one of those times.  
  
Tristram doesn't need to be told to stay flat against the wall, hidden from view by his father's big coat, while his father works on the lock. It takes perhaps thirty seconds before the door swings silently open and the two of them can slip through. Then they are running down the stairs. Father, still holding his prize, has to wait for him at every landing, as Tristram has to take a bit of care not to jostle his arm on the railings, but he doesn't once tell him to go faster or hurry up. They probably don't need to run - no one has noticed they've left yet - but Tristram's so excited about their escape that he doesn't think he could walk slowly anyway, and Father apparently feels the same way. Tristram is thrilled. It's like being on a mission together! This must be what it's like for his father when he is on a case.  
  
They go all the way down to the basement level, and emerge in a poorly lit concrete corridor suffused with the hum of behind-the-scenes machinery. Tristram smells laundry and exhaust, but they don't see anyone. At the end of the hallway is another door, but this one's unlocked, at least on their side, and leads to the garbage bins behind the hospital.  
  
And then they are free! Tristram experiences the thrill of illicit accomplishment. He wants to shout, or maybe run some more, but he knows they have to act casual now and not draw attention to themselves.  
  
Father sneaks a sideways glance at Tristram, although most of his attention is still on the plate in his hand. "Are you all right carrying that?" Father asks.  
  
It takes a moment for Tristram to realise he means his bag, which slid off his shoulder during their dash down the stairs, and is now dangling from his elbow. It's practically empty, so it's not heavy. Tristram hitches it up onto his shoulder, ignoring the way it pulls on his still-fresh cuts, and grins up at his father. "Yep," he says happily.  
  
They walk several blocks away from the hospital before his father flags down a cab for them. Tristram is glad. Just that short walk has tired him and made his bag feel heavier than it is.  
  
Once in the cab, Father sets his precious plate on his lap and gathers Tristram's bag up from the floor where Tristram has let it slide down, and tucks it in on his other side. Then he wraps his arm around Tristram and pulls him close. His arm is pressing rather uncomfortably on one of the larger cuts on Tristram's back, but that doesn't matter. Tristram immediately snuggles in and rests his head against his father's chest, pushing away the flutters of unease at the uncharacteristic behaviour and possible reasons for it. All that matters at the moment is that the unpleasantness of the past week has been swept away with the firm grip of his father's hand on his arm and the solid presence of his coat against Tristram's cheek.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

  
Tristram hears voices before he's fully awake. It only takes him a few seconds to identify them as Father and Uncle Mycroft. He knows he hasn't a chance of fooling either of them, but he keeps his eyes closed, just to see if they will say anything interesting.  
  
"… AMA, Sherlock," Uncle Mycroft is saying, "that's not-"  
  
"I'm perfectly aware of the circumstances, and he's fine!" Father snaps back.  
  
"I'm not entirely certain which definition of 'fine' you're availing yourself of," Uncle Mycroft says coolly.  
  
"Mine! _I_ am his father, and he is _fine_! Better than he would be vegetating in that room for one minute longer, at any rate. You know how much he hates hospitals."  
  
"I know how much _you_ hate them," Uncle Mycroft corrects him.  
  
"You didn't see him when I told him we were leaving," Father says smugly. "Go on, tell him, Tristram."  
  
Tristram knew it wouldn't work. He opens his eyes.  
  
Father and Uncle Mycroft are standing across the living room by the mantel, Father with his violin dangling from his hand. Was he playing? Tristram didn't hear either the violin or Uncle Mycroft's entrance. He must have been asleep quite soundly.  
  
"I hate hospitals," he tells Uncle Mycroft obediently. Although 'hate' is perhaps a bit strong, he really was happy to leave.  
  
Uncle Mycroft gives him one of his fake little smiles. "Tristram. How is your hand?"  
  
He tenses it experimentally inside the cast. It hurts, but he sees he's going to have to choose a side here. "Fine," he says.  
  
Uncle Mycroft gives Father a triumphant look. Father scoffs. "It's healing."  
  
"And your back?" Uncle Mycroft presses.  
  
Tristram shifts a bit, then sits up. The bandages catch on a couple of spots, but overall it actually does feel better. "Better," he confirms, trying to be as convincing as possible.  
  
Now it's Father's turn with the triumphant look, accompanied by a quick riff on the violin.  
  
Uncle Mycroft sighs. "Fine, I can see there's no point in belabouring it, but I must register my most strenuous objections to any travel right now."  
  
Father lays his violin and bow carefully in the case on the table. "We will have a doctor with us." He presents it as a statement, but Tristram can hear the question at the core. He also hears the 'we'. Are they going back to Grandmother's? He and Father and Doctor Watson (the only doctor Tristram can imagine might be accompanying them) and thus, probably Emily too? It seems like it's been forever since he's seen her, even though he knows it's only been a few days. Does this mean that Doctor Watson and Father have patched up their row? If they even had a row in the first place.  
  
Uncle Mycroft lets the suspense build while Father fusses with his violin.  
  
"I know he said yes, Mycroft," Father says testily as he snaps the case shut. "You're not going to get any declarations out of me, or whatever it is you're fishing for."  
  
Uncle Mycroft, with a sour look, pulls out a thick envelope from inside his suit jacket. Father snatches it greedily and rips it open.  
  
"I do wish you'd listen to reason on the wisdom of all four of you travelling together," Uncle Mycroft says. "You might as well not bother with false identities at all."  
  
"Not negotiable," Father says as he sorts through the contents of the envelope. Tristram sees what looks like a passport, as well as some other papers.  
  
"You can indulge in your little dalliance once Moran's gang has been rounded up."  
  
Father dumps everything back into the envelope. "Thank you," he says curtly and brushes past Uncle Mycroft to the door, which he holds pointedly open. "We'll be sure to send a postcard."  
  
Uncle Mycroft gathers his umbrella from where it's leaning against one of the armchairs. He frowns down at it. "Sherlock..." He glances at Tristram. It's clear he wants to say something more, but doesn't think it appropriate for Tristram to hear. Finally, he sighs and says simply, "Good luck."  
  
"Luck will have nothing to do with it. Good-bye." Father inclines his head toward the exit in a silent nudge.  
  
Uncle Mycroft takes the hint and goes to the door. He pauses before crossing the threshhold and turns to Tristram. "Take good care of your father," he tells him.  
  
Tristram always does. He nods anyway. "Okay."  
  
Uncle Mycroft nods back, then goes down the stairs.  
  


&&&&&&

  
It develops that they are not going to Grandmother's at all. They are going to Switzerland. Switzerland! Tristram's only reference point is a chocolate advert that ran a couple of years ago. It showed a lot of cows and mountains and grass. Tristram also knows that Switzerland is famous for making pocket-knives. Father has two, with lots of hidden attachments. That is the sum total of Tristram's knowledge on Switzerland. He's not even sure what language they speak there, although he knows it's not English. Possibly French. Grandmother has lamented on occasion that Father and Mycroft never taught Tristram French. Not that she ever did, either. (It was her first language, apparently, but she gave it up along with Edith).  
  
The trip is officially a holiday, but Tristram understands from what Uncle Mycroft said about 'Moran's gang' (as well as other whispered hints and references) that they are running away. He and Father and Doctor Watson and Emily, all together. It's like the 'safe house' that Doctor Watson and Emily went to, only this time it will be an entire 'safe country'.  
  
Tristram is worried about missing more school, but Father told him everything has been taken care of. It's not as if he could complete his assignments now anyway, considering that he can't write. And even if they weren't going away, he'd still be staying home at least another week because of his back. Maybe they'll be back by then anyway.  
  
The most exciting part is, though, they're not going as Sherlock and Tristram Holmes, and John and Emily Watson. He and Father are now Basil and Terris Rathbone, and the Watsons are Henry and Emily Brown. Father explained that Emily has to have the same first name because she's not used to playing pretend for days and days on end, and she'd forget otherwise and make a mistake. Tristram's new name is based on a similar principle: said quickly, it sounds like "Tris", so they can get away with using his actual nickname. Not, Father assured him, that anyone doubts Tristram's ability to remember and answer to a new name (which he proved himself able to do for weeks at a time that one summer at Grandmother's, when he was attempting to adopt a new name the way she did). But it's easier for Emily to continue calling him 'Tris'. And Father is still 'Father' to him either way, the same as Doctor Watson is 'Dad' for Emily. Emily and Tristram rarely have cause to address each other's fathers directly, so there is little chance of a slip-up there. Still, Tristram makes sure to firmly overwrite 'Doctor Watson' with 'Mister Brown' in his mental index.  
  
Tristram hasn't seen Doctor Watson and Emily since the night he was shot. They're still in the secret, safe place that Uncle Mycroft arranged for them. They're not allowed to telephone, and Emily hasn't sent any more letters. Or at least there haven't been any more delivered. Father hasn't had any contact with them either, which is driving him spare. He's bemoaned the fact loudly and at length several times since they got home last night, between intense sessions poring over the samples left for him on Tristram's dinner tray. Tristram suggests that he could write a letter, the same way he and Emily did, but apparently that is 'medieval'. Tristram doesn't think Father really finds letter-writing evil; he simply doesn't have the patience for it. And anyway, they will see them tonight at the airport.  
  
The car is arriving to pick them up in half an hour, so Tristram's been sent upstairs to pack. He's only allowed one small suitcase and one backpack, because he has to be able to carry everything himself. It's almost December, and the Alps will now be covered with snow, so he's packed warm things. Tristram knows both what the Swiss mountains are called and that they have snow on them from the relief globe in Uncle Mycroft's study. He doesn't know how long they'll be gone for, so he just stuffs everything he can into his suitcase. That leaves his backpack. Beyond clothing and bathroom items - and his phone, which is already in his trouser pocket - Tristram isn't sure what to bring. It might be a good idea to have a few books along to read, but they are heavy. He wishes he'd thought to take the e-reader from the hospital. The promised delivery of the rest of his things has yet to arrive. He decides just to take the Harry Potter book he and Emily were reading. Maybe Father will read some more to them. And if not, Doc- 'Mister Brown' surely will.  
  
As Tristram retrieves the book from where it's lying on top of the dresser, something catches his eye under the field bed, which is still set up from when Emily stayed there. He bends down and finds the glued-together collection of cardboard and tinfoil and odd bits of plastic that represents his and Emily's time machine. Her father must have forgot to pack it when he took her things, or maybe he just didn't see it, or didn't realise it belonged with Emily. Although it's just as much Tristram's time machine as it is Emily's, come to think of it. Tristram holds it in his hand, considering. He has lots of room in his backpack, and it's pretty light. Much lighter than a book. He has lots of fond memories of working on this project with Emily, and somehow he doesn't want to leave it here. Even though he knows they'll be coming back soon. Possibly even by next week. And maybe Emily has been wondering where it is. He holds his backpack open with his clumsy right hand and slides in the time machine and the book.  
  
"Tristram!" his father calls up the stairs.  
  
"Coming!" He zips the backpack with his left hand and teeth and slings it over his shoulder, then picks up his suitcase and goes down to join his father.  
  


&&&&&&

  
Father is not in a good mood. He's done nothing since they got in the car but stare out the window, clutching his gloves in his lap. He hasn't corrected the driver's route so much as once, despite the fact that even Tristram could have chosen less busy thoroughfares. If he didn't know better, he'd think Father didn't want to go on this trip after all. But it was Uncle Mycroft who didn't want them to go, and Father who insisted, so it must be something else.  
  
They are now driving slowly along a street lined with what look like brand-new houses all in pink brick with white trim. The gardens are dull patches of mud and scraggly things and piles of rubble that no one's bothered to clear away yet. They drive all the way to the end of the street, which ends in a circle that loops back on itself, but instead of turning around, they keep going up the driveway of the house there. The garage door lifts, and they drive straight in. The garage is spotless and completely empty. It doesn't look like anyone lives here.  
  
The driver turns the engine off and tells Father and Tristram to 'wait here'. Father pulls the handle on his door anyway, but it is locked. He scowls and slumps back. The driver goes to the inside door that leads to the house. There is a thumbprint scanner mounted on the wall, but he doesn't activate it. Instead, he pushes a button on the panel below it and waits. Several seconds later, the door opens and Emily and Doctor Watson come out, both with big grins as they try to peer through the tinted windows of the car. The driver unlocks the back door with his key, and then Emily bounces into the car, practically landing on Tristram, and flings her arms around him.  
  
Doctor Watson ducks his head in. "Hiya, Basil." If possible, his smile gets even bigger.  
  
Tristram, all but smothered by Emily, hears his father say, "Henry." His voice comes out kind of funny and he has to clear his throat.  
  
"Hey, Em, watch his hand," Doctor Watson warns her, still grinning.  
  
She sucks in a breath and pulls back a bit. "Sorry," she says, looking down at the cast resting in Tristram's lap. "Does it still hurt?"  
  
"Sometimes. Not now," he tells her. She didn't really jostle it much.  
  
"What did it feel like?" she wants to know. "Was there a hole right through your hand?"  
  
It's weird, but Tristram doesn't actually remember now how it felt. He remembers his back hurting a lot more, and worrying about his father. "It hurt, I guess," he says. "It was bleeding a lot and your father covered it up so I couldn't see it."  
  
"It's really good he was there," she says.  
  
Tristram is a bit surprised by that statement. Doesn't she know...? But looking at her entirely sincere expression, he realises she doesn't. No one's told her that the bullet was meant for her father, and that if he hadn't come over, no one would have been shot at all. Or at least not then and there. On the other hand, maybe it was good that Doctor Watson was there, so that Tristram could push him out of the way. He doesn't think that's what she means, though, and he understands without being told that Emily can never be allowed to know the truth. So he says, "Yeah, it was."  
  
Emily is pushing against Tristram pretty hard with her hip now, but it takes him a moment to understand she means for him to move over to make room for her father to get in. He tries to accommodate her by pressing closer to his own father, but four across is going to be a tight squeeze no matter what.  
  
Doctor Watson recognises this too. "I'll sit in front," he says.  
  
The driver has finished loading their bags into the boot and comes around to unlock the door for Doctor Watson. They end up with Emily behind her father, Tristram in the middle, and Father behind the driver.  
  
Doctor Watson buckles himself in and turns in his seat so he can see Father and Tristram. "The two of you are certainly a sight for sore eyes," he says. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you doing so well, Tris." He reaches between the gap in the front seats to pat Tristram's knee.  
  
Tristram's happy to see Doctor Watson too, but he feels funny about saying that, so he just says, "Thank you."  
  
"Hey, no one's signed your cast yet!" Emily exclaims.  
  
Tristram looks at his hand. Sign his cast? His lack of understanding must show on his face, because Doctor Watson explains, "It's traditional for people to write something on your cast, to wish you a speedy recovery. I don't have a pen right now, but I'll sign it for you when we get to the airport."  
  
"Here." Father has miraculously - or not, given the assortment of oddities he tends to carry around with him - produced a felt-tip pen and is holding it under Tristram's nose.  
  
Doctor Watson grins. "Still a bit hard for me to reach from here. But Ems, you go ahead."  
  
Before giving the pen to Emily, however, Father leans over and scribbles something on Tristram's cast. Once he's done, Tristram lifts his hand to see what he wrote. _'Remember our agreement. Angelo's after.'_ Tristram does remember: Father is going to find whoever hurt Tristram, and make them pay, and Tristram is going to get better. He looks up. Father is watching him, hard, like he's making sure that Tristram knows he's serious.  
  
Tristram squares his jaw and nods. "I know," he says firmly. "I remember."  
  
The driver has backed the car out of the garage, and they are on their way out of the subdivision. Emily has arranged his arm on her lap so she can write on the cast too. Tristram watches as she settles in for what looks like an extensive doodle. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something else, too. Doctor Watson's hand has migrated from Tristram's leg to Father's. It's just resting there, gripping Father's knee. Doctor Watson is still half turned so his arm can reach back between the seats, but he has his eyes ahead, watching the road. Father is looking out the side window again, just like he was on the way here. Tristram keeps his head angled exactly so that it looks like he's watching Emily. She's drawing what looks like some kind of cartoon mouse with unnaturally large ears and teeth. Beside him, Father lifts his hand from the seat and places it over Doctor Watson's on his leg. He doesn't move it until they get to the airport.  
  


%%%%%%

  
It's crowded, even at the business-class desk. Although they already have their boarding passes, they have to queue up to check their suitcases, which they have all piled together onto a trolley in front of them. There are still three people ahead of them. Emily wants to go snowboarding when they get there. For the first time, Tristram is glad for his injuries; he has absolutely no inclination whatsoever to attempt snowboarding, and this way he has a convenient excuse not to go.  
  
He looks again at his cast. He likes seeing his father's promise there, and being able to carry it around with him and read it whenever he likes. Next to that is Emily's mouse, with a speech bubble coming out of its mouth. It says, _'Get well soon! Love, Emily.'_  
  
And then around on the inside of his arm - because Father's and Emily's messages already took up so much room on the front side - is what Doctor Watson wrote: _'You are incredibly brave. Thank you. -John'._ That message makes Tristram feel all mixed-up inside. It's embarrassing, for some reason, to have Doctor Watson express gratitude, as if Tristram has done something that he - Doctor Watson - couldn't have, which isn't true at all. Logically, of course, he did Doctor Watson a favour, but Tristram doesn't really feel like he deserves any praise for it. He also doesn't find he was particularly brave. He was terrified, in fact. If he'd been able to shout, to warn Doctor Watson, then he would have been able to get out of the way himself, and Tristram wouldn't have been hurt. And finally, there's the fact that he signed it with his first name, and not as 'Dr Watson'. Tristram doesn't know what to make of that at all.  
  
But oddly, despite Tristram's discomfort when he considers each individual part of the message, as a whole it's secretly his favourite of the three. Secretly because it feels disloyal not to like his father's message best. And he loves his father's message. He's already read it what seems like dozens of times. He has to turn his arm over to see Doctor Watson's message, but then it's like that surprised and delighted feeling you get when you open a drawer you haven't looked in for a while, and find something you were looking for forever and thought was lost. _'You are incredibly brave. Thank you. -John.'_ Tristram turns his arm back over and the message is hidden.  
  
He checks the queue. Still two people in front of them. He looks around the rest of the check-in hall. It seems like the entire airport is made of windows, which makes Tristram feel exposed, but there are lots of people between him and those windows, so that helps a bit. There are also security guards - or maybe they are policemen, Tristram isn't sure - walking around, some with dogs who sniff at the baggage people have piled up on their trolleys. Up above, there is an open gallery with shops and restaurants. A security guard is standing there, too, at the railing, keeping an eye on the lower level. He has on a black bullet-proof vest over a white shirt, and a flat hat with a black-and-white-check pattern over the visor, which almost but not quite hides his eyes. He also has a big rifle that he's holding securely across his chest. His gaze sweeps the crowd, slowly, steadily. When he passes over their area, his eyes stutter, just for the briefest moment, before continuing on, but Tristram notices. He also notices something else.  
  
"Father..." His voice doesn't come out any louder than a whisper. No one can hear him; there's too much other noise. Something tells him not to shout and draw attention to himself, though.  
  
Tristram backs up, even though he knows that won't do any good. Half a metre won't make a difference. The guard is still looking the other way. At least it looks like he's looking the other way, but Tristram knows that trick all too well. Tristram bumps into someone behind him. Hands immediately grasp his shoulders. Tristram jerks around. It's Father, steadying him. Tristram tries to tell him, but his heart feels like it's leaping into his throat such that he can hardly get the words out. "The bodyguard..."  
  
Father's attention is immediately focused on Tristram. "What is it? What have you seen?" This is one of those times Tristram wishes his father could really see into his head.  
  
Tristram reminds himself of Gents. He reminds himself that he ripped out the IV line with his teeth. He sees Doctor Watson's words in his mind's eye: _'You are incredibly brave.'_  
  
"The bodyguard," he says, pleased with how steadily his voice comes out, "the one who wasn't really a bodyguard, he's here."  
  
Father's eyes do not flicker away from his for even a fraction of a second. "Don't look around. Don't move. Tell me," he says.  
  
"Behind me," Tristram tells him. "Up by the shops. He has a gun."  
  
Father slowly, casually, rotates Tristram so that he is now standing between Tristram and the upper gallery. "Henry..." he says, lightly, as if he's about to ask for a pen.  
  
Doctor Watson holds a hand up to Emily to stop her chatter for a moment. "Yeah?" He looks over, his eyebrows raised expectantly.  
  
"Would you please check the upper level? The person of interest will have a dark complexion, muscular build, carrying a firearm of some sort."  
  
Doctor Watson's expression shifts immediately from relaxed holidaymaker to keen-eyed lookout. "Spotted. Yeah, it's a submachine gun, but he's airport security. There are a couple up there. Down here too, for that matter."  
  
"Are you certain it's him?" Tristram's father asks Tristram.  
  
Tristram knows this is very important. He is the only witness who can identify the man, and it could be bad if he's wrong. "Yes," he says. He is. Even at this distance. "He saw us too. His eyes sort of jumped when he looked this way."  
  
"All right." Father squeezes his eyes shut. He's thinking. "All right... He's not going to start shooting randomly into the crowd. He'd need a reason, some provocation..." He pops his eyes open and stands on his toes, looking for something. He still has his hands on Tristram's shoulders, steadying himself.  
  
"You think they have someone planted with the right kind of reason?" Doctor Watson asks. He's looking deliberately in another direction now too, but Tristram is certain he hasn't let the man out of his sight.  
  
"Yes, and it will be someone near by, near enough that missing by a couple of metres will be unfortunate but excusable. But who?" Tristram can hear the frustration in Father's voice. "This wasn't supposed to happen!"  
  
"Fuck, he's looking over here, he's spotted something-" Doctor Watson is already in motion, reaching down toward Emily.  
  
"Get Tristram and Emily to cover. Now!" Father shoves Tristram at Doctor Watson, and then Tristram can't follow what's happening very well. All he knows is that Doctor Watson's picked him up under one arm and Emily under the other and dives with them behind the check-in desk.  
  
Tristram lands hard, sending a stab of pain through his hand. People start screaming. Tristram hears Emily's shrieks beside him. They're both lying on the floor, face-down, with Doctor Watson covering them with his body. Tristram's hand is wedged in underneath him. He struggles against Doctor Watson's weight, trying to get his hand free. Tristram hears Doctor Watson's voice in his ear, telling them to stay down, that everything's going to be all right. Then he hears his father's voice, roaring above all the other cries and sounds of panic, saying something about a device. Is there another fake bomb? Or is it a real bomb this time? There's more shouting, and Tristram finally manages to peek out from under Doctor Watson's arm, but what he sees doesn't make any sense.  
  
His father is standing there, holding the time machine up over his head with both hands. He's surrounded by knocked-over trolleys and abandoned baggage. Where has everyone gone? What is Father doing with the time machine? Does it really work? Has he sent everyone away? Tristram's mind reels.  
  
Then there is more shouting - Tristram can't see from where - and Father lowers the time machine, very slowly and carefully, and sets it on the floor, then kicks it away. Then, also very slowly, keeping his hands up over his head, he lays down flat on the floor. And then there are men with guns all over him.  
  
"Father!" Tristram screams and thrashes under Doctor Watson.  
  
"No, Tris, don't, it's okay!" Doctor Watson holds Tristram down, but Tristram won't stop screaming. They're going to kill him, they're going to kill his father, and Doctor Watson's just going to let them!  
  
Tristram screams and screams until he can't see anything through the tears, and all the time Doctor Watson is holding him tight and telling him it's going to be all right. Tristram has never felt so betrayed in his life.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

  
Tristram is huddled on the couch under Mrs Hudson's afghan, which somehow has found its way to the safe house along with the rest of his things from the hospital. Doctor Watson has gone to the kitchen to help Emily with breakfast. It must be morning. It's impossible to tell from the windows, as they are all shuttered and have heavy curtains drawn over them. It's the best feature of the house, in Tristram's opinion.  
  
Tristram's eyes are swollen and dry and his throat hurts. He doesn't know where his father is, and that hurts even more. Doctor Watson sat on the couch with Tristram all night. Emily didn't want to be alone upstairs, so she brought down a pillow and a blanket and slept on the carpet. Doctor Watson held Tristram for long stretches, until Tristram would have to crawl away to curl up in the opposite corner and cry a little, quietly. Tristram is still resentful of the fact that Doctor Watson let the men with guns take Father away, but he doesn't have anyone else he can turn to for comfort.  
  
After the men with the guns took Father away, Tristram and Emily had to sit in a little room at the airport while Doctor Watson talked to the police in another room. There was a lady who gave them sandwiches and juice, but no one would tell them anything, no matter how loud Emily yelled. Eventually, Doctor Watson came in, looking like he'd been yelling as loud as Emily. Doctor Watson said Father was fine, but he allowed that he hadn't actually seen him. The three of them were then allowed to get into one of Uncle Mycroft's cars and come here.  
  
Doctor Watson also told Tristram that Father had a plan, that he wouldn't have done what he did if there were any danger in it. Tristram thinks he was trying to convince himself as much as Tristram, because he admitted he didn't actually know what that plan was. But it did succeed in Tristram and Emily and Doctor Watson being safe, and no one being injured.  
  
Except that may not be true, because they still don't know what happened to Tristram's father. All they saw was him being hustled away by several men with very large guns. Doctor Watson said they were a special anti-terrorism unit of the police, and they were just being careful, but as soon as they realise that Father isn't a terrorist and wasn't trying to hurt anyone, they'll let him go.  
  
That was hours and hours ago, though, and there's still been no word, not even from Uncle Mycroft, which is extremely worrying. Even though Father's been gone for longer than this before, this time is different. This time, Tristram actually saw him being taken away, and he saw the men who took him. He can't help but imagine all the terrible ways the scenario could have played out.  
  
Eventually, Emily and Doctor Watson come back from the kitchen. Emily goes upstairs to get dressed and brush her teeth, and Doctor Watson makes Tristram get up to use the loo. When he's done, Doctor Watson has him take his shirt off so he can check the bandages, which he had to redo when they got back last night. Tristram tore several of them off during his tantrum at the airport, and re-opened a couple of the deeper cuts. Luckily, there were enough medical supplies in the house that they didn't have to go to the hospital again. The cast seems to have protected Tristram's hand well enough. Tristram is embarrassed now about losing control so thoroughly, but he couldn't help it. He still feels the echo of that panic and helpless fear when he thinks about it now, so he focuses on counting the tiles on the floor instead while Doctor Watson applies fresh gauze and tape. He gets to sixty-three by the time he's done.  
  
Doctor Watson then takes Tristram into the kitchen and makes him drink a glass of milk. One of the on-duty bodyguards is there, drinking coffee and looking at a newspaper. The other bodyguard is probably on the upper floor, keeping an eye on the street. Tristram doesn't like being in the same room with either of them, even with Doctor Watson there, so he finishes his milk quickly and says he's full. He is, too.  
  
When they go back to the living room. Emily's there, setting up a video game on the console under the big television screen.  
  
"Come on, I'll show you how to play Mario Kart," she says enthusiastically.  
  
Tristram crawls onto the couch and pulls Mrs Hudson's afghan around him.  
  
"Give him a moment, he's just woken up," Doctor Watson says. He sounds tired himself. Tristram looks at him - really looks on him - for the first time this morning. He has huge dark smudges under his eyes, and blond-grey stubble all over his chin and cheeks. He looks old.  
  
Emily plonks herself down on the carpet with the controller. "Just watch me. It's super easy."  
  
Doctor Watson sits down next to Tristram and squeezes his foot through the afghan. "It's really not. She's scary good," he tells him in a confidential tone.  
  
They sit and watch Emily pilot some kind of frog creature on a motorcycle around various race tracks littered with obstacles. Doctor Watson leaves his hand on Tristram's foot. After the third scenario, Tristram's actually becoming interested enough that he thinks he might want to give it a go. It does look pretty easy.  
  
It's then that they hear voices in the kitchen - probably just the bodyguards talking, or someone coming in through the garage with a delivery - but then the door opens, and Father is standing there. He looks for all the world as if he's just come back from a quick visit to the British Museum, not at all like he's spent the past several hours in custody on suspicion of terrorism.  
  
"Sherlock!" Doctor Watson is on his feet right away.  
  
Tristram is even quicker. He is off the couch in an instant, hurling himself at his father. He squeezes him around the waist with his one good arm and burrows his face into his coat. He doesn't care that hugging isn't something they do, and maybe it won't be again tomorrow, but it is right now. He doesn't know why, but he needs to. He's going to explode if he doesn't. It's worse than after Friday Afternoon.  
  
"Tristram, what's... Is he all right?" Father says. He sounds slightly bewildered. He's obviously talking to Doctor Watson, but Tristram feels Father's hand come up and cup the back of his head. Tristram squeezes harder.  
  
Tristram hears Doctor Watson say, "You bloody idiot," in a rough voice, and then he's there, too, one arm around Father and one arm around Tristram. "You bloody, blithering idiot." His voice is muffled, and when Tristram tilts his head up a bit, he sees Doctor Watson has his face pressed up against Father's neck. Then something pushes against Tristram on the other side: it's Emily, joining in their group hug.  
  
She looks up at Father with a curious expression. "Did our time machine work?" she asks.  
  
"What? No," he says, as if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. "I needed to trump their diversion. You see, someone was planning to -"  
  
"Sherlock," Doctor Watson warns.  
  
Father engages in a brief, silent exchange with Doctor Watson, and appears to lose. He sighs. "Yes, well, this person wanted an excuse to use his gun. I gave him that excuse, but on my terms. And since he didn't want to shoot me, he had no choice but to play along."  
  
"We were worried about you," Emily tells him, as if this is an argument against his behaviour.Tristram is surprised. She was worried about Father too?  
  
"That was hardly necessary," Father mutters as if he's uncomfortable with the attention. "There was no danger. As I said, they never wanted to shoot me."  
  
Doctor Watson pulls back to look at Father. "You can't know that!" he says incredulously. "I don't care how brilliant you are, you cannot have known what they would have done."  
  
Father extracts himself from the three of them and goes over to the couch. "And anyway," he says, flinging his coat open as he sits down, "it all worked out. Tonga is in custody, and they're currently running an analysis of samples taken from his hair at my request. They should show residue matching the ashes I found both at the flat across the street and an Llanbroc. That will place him at both scenes."  
  
"What, he's a smoker so he's guilty?" Doctor Watson goes over to join him on the couch. Emily follows, curling up against her father.  
  
Father smirks in that way that means he knows something that no one else knows. He flips the edge of his coat up to make room next to him on his empty side. Tristram takes it as an invitation and slides into the space. Father has both arms stretched out across the back of the couch, one behind Tristram and one behind Doctor Watson. He's not touching either of them, but that doesn't matter. Tristram feels wanted and safe and he's already forgiven his father for leaving him behind, for letting him think that he was being kidnapped and taken away to be tortured or worse.  
  
"Did you know," Father begins expansively, now that he is assured of a captive and grateful audience, "that every strain of tobacco has a particular chemical signature that leaves identifiable traces in the hair of habitual smokers? Our suspect smokes hand-rolled cigarettes filled with pure nicotiana andamana, a type of tobacco that's not sold in England due to its extreme potency. He hasn't been here long, maybe six months, must have brought his own supply with him. It's quite unique."  
  
"He's just another hired hand, though," Doctor Watson says.  
  
Father looks as if he doesn't want to answer that, but finally says, "Yes."  
  
"Then this isn't over yet," Doctor Watson presses.  
  
Father looks like he doesn't want to answer that even more. "No," he admits.  
  
Doctor Watson's jaw tightens. "Right. Right... And now?"  
  
Father lifts his arms from behind them claps his hands loudly, rubbing them together. "We have holiday plans, John!" he exclaims, suddenly jolly.  
  
Doctor Watson looks sceptical. "Are you sure that's... I mean, is that wise? Basil Rathbone and Henry Brown are known quantities now."  
  
"Absolutely!" he says, full of enthusiasm. "Trust me, John. Switzerland is a neutral country. Safest place in the world. Nothing to worry about." Father pushes himself up off the couch and swirls around to face them. "Now I suggest you all go pack your things again. We can leave for the airport as soon as you're ready."  
  
Doctor Watson looks unhappy. Not sad-unhappy. More like when you know you need to have an injection and you really don't want to but you know there's no way round it. That kind of unhappy. "Are you sure, Sherlock?" he asks from where he's still sitting on the couch.  
  
Father's jolliness - which Tristram recognises for the sham it is - fades. He and Doctor Watson stare at each other for a few moments. Tristram knows they are saying something else underneath that gaze. "Yes," Father says finally, with a weight that is virtually palpable. "Are you sure?" He returns the question, but it's not a challenge the way Doctor Watson's question was. He sounds genuinely uncertain.  
  
Doctor Watson seems to be struggling with something, but whether it's his own internal misgivings or something that Father's said, Tristram can't tell. Tristram's not sure why, and he doesn't even really know what the question means, but he desperately wants Doctor Watson to answer yes. And when he does, Tristram knows that something has changed right at that moment. "Yes," Doctor Watson says. "All right, yes. We're with you." He stands up.  
  
Tristram would have thought that would make Father happy, but he mostly looks a bit stunned. Like he's pleased but a little scared of what that means. Like Tristram felt when he expressed a - purely hypothetical - curiosity about what it felt like to shoot a gun, and Father took him to the police firing range the next day and set ear protectors and goggles that were much too big onto his face and pressed a gun into his hands.  
  
Father recovers quickly, though, and puts on his generically satisfied expression. "Good," he says briskly. "That's good. Why don't you go on, Tristram, I'll come and help you in a moment."  
  
Now it's Tristram's turn to be surprised. Father hasn't helped him pack since he was quite small. But it's true that it takes him twice as long to do anything because of his hand, and Father probably just doesn't want to waste any time before they can leave.  
  
Doctor Watson tells Emily to go with Tristram, which isn't at all subtle, so as soon as they are in the hallway, they turn right back around by unspoken agreement and crack the door to the living room open again so they can see.  
  
Father and Doctor Watson are standing together, like they were in the Watsons' living room, with their arms loosely around each other. Father has his head bent down so he can rest his forehead against Doctor Watson's. "You can still back out," he says quietly. "No regrets, no reproaches."  
  
Doctor Watson closes his eyes. He almost looks like he's in pain. "No. I have to see this through. For Mary. And for me." He tugs Father closer by his hips. "And for you."  
  
Father closes his eyes too. He pushes his face down closer to Doctor Watson's. They're not quite kissing, but their noses are smushed together. "John..." Father breathes out, barely audible.  
  
"God help me," Doctor Watson says, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to absolutely everyone who left kudos and such great comments throughout. I love that there was so much of an emotional response to this, and I am especially moved by those personal experiences that people have felt safe enough to share here. This is obviously just a made-up story and I've never been through anything like any of the situations depicted here, so I was really humbled to hear that people are able to identify, even if only in a small way, with some of the characters and the things that I put them through. You, the readers, are such a huge part of this. Thank you for participating. And finally, thank you once again to nox_candida for creating the original characters and set-up and for giving the okay for me to share this what-if with the fandom.
> 
> And now... read the sequel: [The Cuckoo's Lullaby](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1773376)


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